It Started With Choosing Restaurants by How Far I'd Have to Walk
I'm 61. I raised three kids on my feet, worked thirty years as a school nurse, and my morning walk with my neighbor Carol has been my therapy for a decade.
Two summers ago, that bump at the base of my big toe stopped being "just ugly" and started burning. By the last block of our walk I'd be quietly limping. I caught myself checking how far the entrance was before agreeing to a restaurant. I stopped wearing sandals — in Florida — because I didn't want anyone looking at my feet.
The night I skipped my granddaughter's dance recital because my foot was throbbing from a grocery run, I sat on the edge of the bath and cried. Then I got angry, and I started digging for real answers.




