Back in 1982, I wanted a pair of Nike Cortez more than almost anything. They were $23 at the time ($76 in 2025, with inflation) —just out of reach. My mom couldn’t afford them, no matter how much I hinted or stared at them in the store window. And I understood. We didn’t have extra. We had enough, barely. But not for shoes that cost that much, not when there were more important things to cover. Still, it stung.

At that age, not getting something like that doesn’t just feel like disappointment—it feels like a verdict. Like proof that you’re poor. That you’re different. That maybe life isn’t going to offer you the same chances.

And now? I have them. I finally bought myself a pair. Not to show off. Not because I needed them. But because I wanted to reach back and take that 1982 version of me by the hand. To tell that kid: You kept going. And look where you are now.

Those shoes are more than sneakers. They’re a quiet celebration. A full-circle moment. A symbol of how far I’ve come.

But I’m not done. I’ll never be done. I’ve still got a long way to go. And every time I lace them up, I remember where I started—and how hard the road was just to get here.

Writing from Thimphu, Bhutan, currently serving as a writing professor at the local college.