Some moods don’t respond to advice. They don’t want to be solved, reframed, or turned into a lesson. They just want movement, like a glass of water you drink without thinking because your body knows before your brain does.
When I’m in one of those moods, I put on shoes. It sounds too simple to count as a coping mechanism, which is probably why it works.
Shoes are practical. Shoes don’t ask you to explain yourself. Shoes are a quiet agreement between you and the world that says, I’m leaving the apartment now, and I might come back as a softer version of myself.
I live in Florence, in a small apartment that always looks slightly unfinished in the way lived-in places do. There’s always something drying on a chair. The streets outside are beautiful in a way that makes you feel guilty for being in a bad mood, which is its own special cruelty.
A pair that hurts will turn a walk into punishment. A pair that slips will make me angry. A pair that’s too precious will make me self-conscious. I don’t need any of that. I need shoes that let my body do its quiet work.
The Mood I’m Talking About
The mood that shows up when you’ve been too online, too polite, too busy responding. The mood that makes your apartment feel smaller than it is. The mood that makes you open the fridge even though you’re not hungry, just looking for a different feeling.
Sometimes it’s sadness. Sometimes it’s irritation that has nowhere to go. Sometimes it’s nothing specific, just a vague heaviness that clings to your shoulders like a damp towel.
I used to treat those moods like problems to fix, which only made them louder. Now I treat them like weather. I don’t moralize it. I don’t negotiate. I change my environment and let my nervous system catch up.
That’s what walking is for me. Not exercise, not steps, not productivity. Walking is how I move a feeling through my body until it stops trying to live in my throat.
The Shoes: Not Pretty, Not Sporty, Just Trustworthy
The shoes I wear when I need to walk off a mood are not the most stylish pair I own. They’re not ugly either. They’re just… honest.
They are flat or low, with a sole that doesn’t slap loudly on stone. They have enough structure that my foot feels held, but not so much that I feel like I’m wearing armor. I can walk for an hour without thinking about them, which is the highest compliment I can give footwear.
In my case, it’s a pair of worn-in leather sneakers in an off-white color that has stopped pretending to stay clean. I like leather for this because it adjusts to you, the way a good habit adjusts to a real life.
I’ve owned this pair long enough that it has my shape. I don’t mean that in a romantic way. I mean it in a practical way. My heel doesn’t slide. The tongue doesn’t fold into a painful little corner. Nothing rubs. Nothing surprises me.
The Real Reason These Shoes Work
They don’t make me feel like I’m doing something impressive. They make me feel like I’m allowed to be a normal person walking around.
There’s a certain kind of outfit that turns a walk into a statement. A certain kind of shoe that makes you feel observed. And maybe that’s fun sometimes, but it’s not what I want when I’m trying to disappear inside my own head without the world following me in.
These shoes make me feel anonymous in the best way. I can pass through the city without performing the role of “woman out alone.” I can just be someone moving.
When I’m wearing them, I don’t think about whether I look cute. I think about where the next quiet street is.
My Walking Route, The One I Keep Returning To
I usually start by walking toward the Arno, because water does something to my thoughts. It stretches them out. It makes them less trapped. If I go at the wrong time of day, Florence can feel like it’s made of elbows and cameras, but if I catch it early or in that in-between hour before dinner, there are pockets of calm.
I walk past shops I don’t need anything from. I let myself look at ordinary things, like someone stacking oranges in a neat pyramid or a man wiping down café tables like it’s a ritual. These small scenes are strangely comforting because they remind me the world keeps doing its quiet work even when I’m stuck in my head.
Sometimes I end up climbing slightly, because hills change breathing without making it feel like exercise. I notice my calves, my ankles, the small shifts in weight. That physical awareness pulls me out of the loop.
And if the mood is sharp, like a thought I can’t stop replaying, I choose streets with uneven stones because they force attention. You have to look where you step. You have to stay present or you’ll twist your ankle. It’s a low-stakes way of being forced into the now.
The Hack: The Sock Trick That Prevents Blisters
Here’s the practical hack I wish I’d learned earlier, because nothing ruins a calming walk like realizing your heel is turning into a blister.
On mood-walk days, I wear thin wool-blend socks, even in warmer months. Not thick hiking socks, just a light merino blend. They manage sweat better than cotton, they reduce friction, and they keep my shoes feeling consistent across different temperatures.
Cotton gets damp, damp gets rubby, rubby becomes pain, and pain turns a quiet sad mood into rage. Wool-blend socks stop that chain reaction. It’s such a small change, and it has saved me from so many “why am I suffering” walks.
If you don’t have wool socks, the backup hack is simple: a tiny swipe of balm (or even a bit of moisturizer) on the back of the heel before you put your socks on. It creates a slip layer that reduces rubbing. It looks like nothing. It feels like relief.
What These Shoes Mean Now
I used to buy shoes like I used to buy skincare: for the version of me who was always going somewhere and always feeling photogenic doing it. Those shoes didn’t get worn much. They were too hard, too high, too fussy.
The shoes I wear now are chosen for the life I actually have. The life where I sometimes need to leave my apartment because I’m irritated for no reason. The life where I need my feet to feel supported so my brain can quiet down.
When I pick these shoes, I’m not just picking comfort. I’m picking a kind of day. A day where I don’t spiral at home. A day where I let the city carry me for a while. A day where I return with my shoulders lower and my face less tight.
That’s what a good pair of shoes does, at least for me. It gives the feeling somewhere to go. Not everything needs to be processed. Some things just need to be walked through, slowly, on stone streets, in shoes that don’t ask you to be anyone else.