BEAUTY IS pain, they say. In a world where trans identities are questioned, womanhood is something to be earned, and pain is the price we are expected to pay just to be seen as real. For me, that struggle is everywhere—even in the shoe section.
I needed a pair of black doll shoes to complete my look for an event. So, I went to a department store with the most important women in my life—my Mamay, my mommy, and my 10-year-old little sister. Having them by my side made it easier to ask a salesperson where the women’s section was without any hesitation.
At first, I was unsure if someone like me—a woman trapped in a man’s body, even belonged in that aisle lined with dainty shoes made for girls. Once I got there, however, all I had to do was hope that out of the hundreds of displays in their plus-size section, there was a pair of shoes meant for me.
For most of the pairs, the heels were higher than the confidence I had. Just as I was about to give up, my Mamay walked up to me, holding the exact pair that I did not even know I hoped for. As I slipped them on, they hugged my feet a little too closely in a familiar way that pain does when you are trying to force something into place. Though it was too tight, it still felt right—it felt like me.
The first time I wore them outside was also the first time I dared to wear an off-shoulder top to school. I had never felt confident dolling up as a woman, especially in a society that scrutinizes gender expression. That day, it took me nearly an hour of pacing back and forth before I finally stepped out of my room, and eventually, onto the streets of Katipunan, then our University’s halls.
From my condo, I climbed stairs, walked uneven roads, and crossed streets while it was raining—pretending that my feet in heels did not hurt with every step. Before heading to class, I had the option to change into the black Crocs I brought with me, but it felt like a betrayal of my womanhood, as these were the only things that made me look and feel like one.
I decided to go to the clinic instead, where the nurse looked at my wounded and bleeding toes, asking if I had a more comfortable pair to change into. However, I lied, saying I did not have one. In my mind, if this was the first step toward claiming my womanhood on my own terms, then I am willing to take the pain, no matter how much it hurts.
With every step, there was pain—but there was also pride. In this society that questions our existence and constantly discriminates trans women, wearing my black doll shoes felt like the only way I could be someone I have always known myself to be. To this day, whenever I wear them, I peel them off like a second skin, trying to mold them into something more acceptable.
I long for the day when I can wear doll shoes not to prove something, or to make a statement, but simply because I want to.
Being a woman extends beyond sex assigned at birth, beyond biology, and beyond what our bodies are expected to produce and endure. It is measured not by strength or pain alone, but by the courage of standing up and loving yourself even if the world resists you. Womanhood should not require performances and sacrifices just to be recognized as real.
Until then, I will still wear my black doll shoes and walk, not to bleed—only to be, one step at a time.
Zaki is a BS Psychology student of the Ateneo de Manila University, set to graduate in 2026. With a passion for storytelling, she aspires to be a bold writer who amplifies marginalized voices, using intentional and truthful narratives to advance trans visibility, celebrate authenticity, and promote equity.
Editor’s Note: The views and opinions expressed by the opinion writer do not necessarily state or reflect those of the publication.
