What Is Wrong With Your Feet?
On bullies, stings, and the search for healing in unexpected places
Waiting for the school bus on the very first day of school is no small thing. For my mother, though, it was memorable for a different reason. As she tells it, that morning confirmed for her that my sharp tongue would be both a shield and a sword in the face of the playground inevitability: bullies.
I was born pigeon-toed, my feet turned inward in a way that has always drawn more attention than I ever wanted. By six years old, it was already obvious that kids would seize on it as a target. And sure enough, on that inaugural bus stop morning, another child pointed and blurted out in the piercingly honest—and unmistakably cruel—way that only a six-year-old can: “What is wrong with your feet?”
Without hesitation, my reply came sharp and quick: “What is wrong with your hair?”
The boy had fiery red hair, bright enough to make him stand out before he ever opened his mouth. It was the easiest counterpunch available, and I took it. The attention shifted, the sting subsided, and the balance of power returned to me.
The lesson was simple: to beat the bully, become the bigger bully. And while that worked for a child on the cusp of his first day of school, we all know how that same logic scales up in adulthood. It becomes the seedbed of conflicts between people, communities, and nations. The strategy of retaliation grows from schoolyards to boardrooms, from neighborhood disputes to international politics. Wherever there is a fight, the winner doesn’t just get the last word—they often get the privilege of holding the pen that memorializes the moment. And when the pen is wielded with force, the hero’s journey begins not with courage but with conquest.
Today, the pen has been digitized into the social media post, the thread, the hot take. Every insult, every clapback, every rallying cry is shared into a cavern where opposing sides rarely meet. Each like or retweet becomes a shout into the void, an echo chamber of affirmation. What is gained is the comfort of knowing we are not alone. What is lost is the fragile, essential space where reconciliation might take root.
To be clear, harm is real. Words wound. Systems oppress. People betray. But here’s where nature offers a quiet wisdom.
In the Pacific Northwest where I grew up, stinging nettles are common. Brush against them and your skin will burn and itch for hours. Yet, those same nettles are rich in nutrients used for teas and medicines that nourish the body, they can help support immune function, improve digestion and promote bone health. And nearby, more often than not, grows the bracken fern. Rub its fronds on the irritated skin and the sting begins to fade. The irritant and the antidote, living side by side.
If we only see the nettle as a danger, our impulse might not only be to rip it from the forest floor, eliminating both the sting and the possibility of sustenance but also overlook the nearby fern which holds within it the ability to ease our pain. If we can hold the paradox—that the same plant that wounds can also nourish, and that healing is often waiting close to the harm—then we gain not just relief, but wisdom.
So what does this mean for us when the sting comes not from a nettle, but from a family member’s harsh words, a friend’s betrayal, a stranger’s prejudice, or even a system of oppression?
Could it mean that alongside the sting, there is always the potential for remedy? That the possibility of healing, while not always obvious or immediate, is rarely far away.
Perhaps our work is not simply to retaliate against the sting, but to look for the fern, the unexpected balm that eases our pain and makes space for reconciliation so that we may see within the nettle what is true within all of us; the ability to nurture coupled with the inevitability of causing harm.
If the first day of school taught me that a quick retort could quiet the source of the sting. The years since have taught me something else: healing isn’t found in becoming the louder voice, the sharper edge. It is found in trust—that where harm appears, healing waits nearby, and that even the place of our pain may hold the sustenance we need for today.