It is widely known, among those who know me, that I loathe wearing shoes.

Or rather: I’m happiest barefoot.

It’s not about the shoes themselves. It’s more about the feeling of touching down.

I feel planted in, or connected to, my PLACE when my soles sense the surface at each step—grounding me, in every sense of the word. The place verbs me: I am placed. And embracing my place (literally) to my toes, whether that’s the Park Office or the beach.

For a number of days, with a weight on my emotions, I’ve slipped on a pair of sandals before heading out the door. Briefly asked myself why, on one of those days, and myself mumbled something like: “I’m not comfortable enough to leave them off.” Too ill-at-ease in my own skin, while I struggled, to expose any extra of that skin to the world.

Today I left the house without even considering the question, and when my newest employee asked, in amusement, “No shoes?” it struck me that there may be no more telling barometer of my mental health than a look at my FEET.