My mom bought me my first pair of heels when I was 13. They were cream-colored and had a thick square heel. A wide strap crossed over my foot just below my toes and one curved around my ankle. They were for my Bat Mitzvah, a Jewish ceremony that marked my graduation from Hebrew School and transition from a girl to a woman.

I remember standing on the stage thinking about how much my little toes hurt. I cocked my foot to the side to relieve the pressure that was building on the arch of my foot. I told myself that if being a woman meant that I would have to wear heels for every occasion, I wasn’t ready to be one. After the parties ended that day, I pushed those heels to the back of the closet and never wore them again.

I don’t understand the concept of heels; they smash your toes, suffocate your feet and are hard to walk in. I would constantly debate my mom and friends about why it was necessary to wear heels. My friends said heels make you look taller and sophisticated. And my mom said tennis shoes make you look like a slob, especially when I would try to wear them with black slacks and a collared shirt. For me, comfort takes precedence. I would rather be called a slob than have to cram my toes into a 3-inch pair of heels.

After my Bat Mitzvah, I grudgingly wore heels when I had to go to synagogue, but tennis shoes became my best friend. I had more than 15 pairs of tennis shoes that ranged in color and style. I had orange shoes and blue shoes with Velcro. For three years, my mom nagged at me to wear heels. “Just try them,” she would say. “It’s not hard and you might like them.” And every time my response was the same: “No.”

Freshman year of high school, I finally let my guard down so my mom and I would stop bickering. My friend Courtney took me to the mall, promising my mom that she would make me look like a sophisticated woman by the time we left. My first purchase was a new pair of jeans with straight legs that were too long to wear without heels. I was being conned; Courtney knew that if I bought long jeans, I would have no choice but to buy heels, too. She led me to Bakers — a shoe store.

The heels were strategically placed on the shelves by style and color. The pointy toes were staring at me. My feet began to ache. The feeling of anxiety pierced me like the sharp, pointy-toed stilettos sitting there. I started to sweat. I took the plunge.

I went toe first into a pair of black shoes that resembled penny loafers on stilts. The heel was a level one in my mind. I was a half-inch taller, and the base of the heel was square and flat enough for me to maintain my balance. Before I could run away, Courtney walked me to the counter to make my purchase.

When I got home, my mom was waiting at the door. The first thing she told me to do was put them on. As I put them on, I could see her smiling at me as she said, “See, heels look nice.”

I wore the square heels twice before they joined the cream heels in the back of the closet. Because my toes had ached and I walked with a limp in those shoes, I started to wonder if other girls’ toes ached as much as mine did in heels or if I just had abnormal feet.

My friends wouldn’t give up, though. It seemed as if they were all in cahoots with my mother. Their argument was that boys would like me more if I wore heels. But if a boy was going to like me, he was going to have to like me for me and the tennis shoes on my feet. We were a packaged deal.

With high school came formal dances. I did the math: four years of high school, two dances a year, eight times wearing heels. I was going to have to lower my guard because otherwise, my mom wouldn’t buy me a dress. Each pair I bought got progressively taller and the width of the heel became skinner. By my junior year, I had moved into black stilettos with a 2-inch heel that were decorated with red rhinestones. As I arrived at the dance, the heels I had been wearing for two hours had to be taken off. I danced freely around the gym floor in my bare feet. Foot fungus was more appealing to me than smashed toes and blisters.

Once I got to college, all heels were off; my friends and my mom could no longer nag me. In the past four years, I’ve worn heels for formals, presentations and special occasions. I try to get away with calling my green Converse high-tops my “heels” and wearing them out on Friday and Saturday nights. And I silently laugh to myself when I see other girls out in heels, thinking about how uncomfortable they must be and how comfortable I am.

Over winter break, the green “heels” weren’t going to pass. I interned in New York City at a magazine and knew that I was going to have to wear heels because most businesswomen do. But, after the first week, the blisters on the sides of my toes were so big that I carried my heels to work. As I looked around the office, I noticed that not everyone wore heels and they still looked sophisticated. I realized that I could be a mature adult while standing flat on the ground.

In one week I’m going to graduate. I’m going to be filling a new pair of shoes and, just like the first time I wore heels, it’s going to be hard. Only this time, my toes aren’t going to ache because I won’t be wearing heels. Instead, I’ll wear ballet flats or flat shoes with round toes. The pressure to wear heels as a businesswoman doesn’t matter to me; I’ve learned through my experiences that being sophisticated comes from inside — not from the shoes on your feet. And every time I gave in to my mom and friends and wore heels, I didn’t feel like me.

So when I enter the business world, I’ll stand out, because unlike the other women who might tower over me, I’ll have my feet planted firmly on the ground.