Feet are as individual as faces. They show how we’ve carried our weight through the world. They’re our interface with gravity, recording every step, stance, and every way we’ve held ourselves in space. 

The donor we called “Anna” was missing her second toes, and the rest were squeezed together. She looked like the kind of grandmother who would welcome a dozen grandchildren with a wide smile. But her feet told another story—bunions and hammer toes from years of stylish high heels.

I see the same story in many of my clients’ feet. Narrowed toes, bunions, hammer toes. Perhaps in youth they danced away the pain, as I once did. I’m grateful I stopped wearing what I now call torture devices. Sometimes I think of Chinese foot binding—an old, brutal attempt to force bodies into unnatural expectations.

Every cadaver’s feet are unique. The skin, fascia, and fat fuse into a sole strong enough to hold a lifetime. Looking at a male donor’s large feet, I imagine their story: soft, curling baby feet; first steps against gravity; running after his father or chasing a dog. Playing football, or soccer.  Later, leather shoes on a granite office floor or steel-toed boots on a construction site. Feet that walked him out of a chapel with his bride, carried him on hikes with his son, down the aisle with his daughter, and held him steady as he lifted his grandson high in the air. And finally, feet at rest, no longer bearing weight.

Anna’s feet tell a different story—one of a young woman dressing up, dancing through the night in pointed heels, ignoring the ache, embracing the moment.

I used to be one of those “ungrounded” people, moving through life on tiptoe. It took me decades to realize how little awareness I had of my connection to the ground. Now I pay attention to the soles of my feet and the shifting of my weight. It anchors me. I am here.