I have weird feet. They are wide and short and ultimately inconvenient. For years, Rack Room Shoes was my venom, Shoe Carnival was not a festival in any respect and Crocs were just never an option. I was almost considering fashioning a pair of homemade moccasins or simply going barefoot when my plight for footwear led me to a size eight Vans skate shoe. Two years later, the laces were fraying at the ends and the maroon cloth was oil-stained from too many supermarket parking lots, but they continued to do the job. At least, until the summer before senior year.

Though I may digress, I must mention what brought me here (other than the shoes on my feet). With the beginning of high school came the beginning of my career as a journalist. Freshman year I joined one of the most awarding-winning student newspaper staffs in the country — instantly discovering a passion for writing, info-graphics and even dreaded deadlines.

Each assigned story was a new opportunity. I craved contention, using writing to spotlight anything from the topic of evolution in public schools to the subject of rape. It has always been my goal to push journalism beyond the headlines and off the pages. Thus, I was ecstatic when it was announced that I would be representing North Carolina at the Al Neuharth “Free Spirit” and Journalism Conference in July 2013.

To qualify as a “free spirit” one had to be a risk-taker, a visionary, an innovative leader, an entrepreneur, or a courageous achiever who journeyed beyond expectations. Prior to attending the conference in Washington, D.C., I educated myself on Al Neuharth, the organization’s late founder. Neuharth was a war veteran, an editor, an American businessman, columnist and creator of USA Today — the most widely read newspaper in the country.

I recall staring at my maroon Vans despairingly. Now I had big shoes to fill. I had not only the honor of representing my state, but also the responsibility of living up to the Neuharth definition of a journalist. Tattered and grime-doused sneakers were not going to cut it any longer, so with a grimace and a mission to find something more “appropriate,” I entered the ninth circle of footwear — Shoe Palace.

In July, a pair of cobalt-blue dress flats and I flew 500 hundred miles away from our small town of Hendersonville. During the first layover, I detected something was awry. The stiff leather material slipped up and down with each step, never quite adhering to the shape of my foot. Due to limited suitcase space, packing only one pair of shoes appeared to be a seemingly intelligent decision, yet two hours and four blisters into my excursion, I began to think differently.

For a week I trudged through the nation’s capital, my heels resembling a bloody war scene. I began to long for those size eight Vans skate shoes with the fraying laces and oil-stained cloth. At the start of the forum, I had a preconceived notion that this honor required me to fill the shoes of someone else– — to follow in the footsteps of a predecessor. However, as the week progressed I began to truly comprehend that I am a “free spirit” because I cannot wear any shoes other than my own.

I will always have weird feet. They are wide and short and ultimately inconvenient. Rack Room Shoes is my venom, Shoe Carnival is not a festival in any respect, and Crocs will never be an option.

By Lauren Stepp