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I leaned against the department store counter, waiting for my mother to finish shopping, my gangly legs outstretched in that particularly teenage way. In the blink of an eye, she turned and then suddenly flew into the nearby underwear display, which was tiered like a wedding cake. Only after scores of lace garments rained down upon us did I realize what happened: I had tripped her. A mixture of embarrassment, laughter, and frustration emanated from my poor mom, still prone as she said: “You and those big feet.”
Puppies grow into their paws. For years growing up, my shoe size was the same as my age, and by the time I was 10, my footwear was scaring me. I finally found my groove in my late teens by leaning into the classics: Converse high-tops—in black, cream, red, and navy—became my signature shoes, and in my 20s I gravitated toward ballet flats and men’s penny loafers, both of which were easy to find in my size and came in abundant colors and materials.
But what happens when you get a job at Vogue and need a pair of proper evening heels to work your first Met Gala? I experimented with European sizes and bought myself a pair of embellished size-40 Manolo Blahnik kitten heels at an editors sample sale—and I thought they were perfect. Over the years, I’ve also honed a careful array of styling choices, like sticking with low-profile silhouettes, choosing single-soles over any sort of platform, and employing sparkle and embellishment on darker colors rather than branching out into anything white, light, or neon-colored.
By 2022, though—while deeply immersed in preparations for the first post-pandemic Met Gala—I found myself in a quandary: After living in socks for almost two years, I could no longer squeeze my feet into my size 40s. I wasn’t even a 41, it turned out. I was—I am—a true size 42.
Was I going through a late growth spurt—or was I simply refusing to put my poor feet through the paces anymore? And just how long had I been wearing the wrong size?
Serious shoes, of course, are small, wearable marvels of engineering, constructed on a particular last that corresponds to a specific size. When I was growing up, EU 40 and 41 (or US 10 and 11) were as big as women’s shoes went. (Those with the opposite problem, meanwhile, generally struggled to find anything smaller than a 37, or a US 7.) It’s simple economics: Engineering and producing shoes in outlier sizes just wasn’t cost-effective.
Thankfully, however, in recent years—whether it’s because women’s feet are getting bigger, the industry is getting more inclusive, or people like me are just not having it with squeezing anymore—we’ve finally been seeing more options for the 41-plus club. It’s a pretty fabulous club, if I do say so myself: In my near decade at Vogue, we’ve sourced Chanel kitten heels for a first lady, and preordered Prada’s 3D floral shoe of the season for an Academy Award–winning actress’s cover shoot—and pulled a desperation pair of strappy Jimmy Choo sandals from a store when her Met look changed at the last minute. (Along with these labels, Manolo Blahnik is a go-to for size-inclusive shoes on both ends of the spectrum.) During the lead-up to the gala, I’ve taken to carrying a few pairs of my own 42s in my XL tote in case of an emergency call from a certain colleague or a fellow 41-plus friend (I’m looking at you, Chioma Nnadi and Paloma Elsesser).
Then again, maybe this whole embracing-big-feet thing is about more than just correct sizing. In the past year Balenciaga has made supersized sneakers—the Cargo—that make your feet look doubled in size, while Loewe released a puffy pump, the Comic, that looks like an exploded doll shoe (plus those MSCHF red boots making the rounds on TikTok). If there’s a single word to describe the shoes as we come out of seeing the fall 2024 shows in New York, London, Milan, and Paris, it’s clodhopper. But please: Don’t tell my mom.