What Your Shoes Say About You (And Other Lies We Believe)

“I know it sounds shallow,” someone said, “but I can usually tell what kind of person someone is just by their outfit.”

Another person chimed in: “A mentor of mine once told me he could tell what kind of man a man is by his shoes.”

Naturally, I looked down.

Untrimmed toenails… Stinky Tevas…

And suddenly I wasn’t so sure what kind of man I was supposed to be.

That quick little exchange stuck with me—not because I’m insecure about my footwear (though maybe I should be)—but because of what it revealed. We live in a world that’s constantly categorizing people by what they wear, what they drive, how they look. It’s subtle, unspoken, and everywhere.

We all know objectifying others is wrong. Reducing someone to their appearance, their usefulness, their perceived value—it dehumanizes them. Turns people into parts.

But here’s what we rarely talk about: we do the same thing to ourselves.

We become the sum of our best qualities—or worse, the sum of the qualities we think other people admire. We start seeing ourselves as “the funny one,” “the stylish one,” “the successful one,” or “the pretty one.” We objectify our worth into categories and measurements. And we hold ourselves hostage to them.

If our looks start to fade, our confidence does too. If our talent plateaus, we panic. If we stop performing well, we start questioning our value. We’re not people anymore—we’re objects. Polished, performing, presentable objects. And whether we like it or not, objects break. Objects wear out. Objects get replaced.

I know both men and women objectify themselves. You figure out what works for you—maybe it’s how you look, how you talk, what you’ve achieved—and you lean into it. It feels good to be good at something. So you double down. And even if you know it’s not where your real value comes from, you don’t think about that in the moment. You’re not reflecting on your worth in Christ—you’re just enjoying the little rush of recognition. The compliment. The nod. The follow. It’s subtle, but it shifts the whole game. You stop thinking about who you are, and start thinking about what gets rewarded.

And here’s the thing… when women objectify themselves, it works. I wish it didn’t. I wish godly men were immune. But we’re not. I’m in France right now with my kids—pushing a stroller through the cobblestone streets of Nice, trying to keep everyone hydrated and alive—and it is hot. Like, spiritually dangerous hot. And apparently the local dress code in this region hovers somewhere between nightclub attire and swimsuit-optional.

So now, while I’m trying to be a present father and maybe think a holy thought or two, I’m also walking through a parade of half-dressed women like I’m in a perfume commercial. It’s a lot. One minute I’m thinking about whether we need more diapers, and the next I’m completely derailed. My brain? Gone. Not lost—I know exactly what it’s focused on. And it ain’t the diapers.

Anyway.

Arthur Brooks, in his book From Strength to Strength, talks about how a lot of people start out strong and sharp—but then spend their later years chasing a version of themselves that doesn’t exist anymore. He calls it the striver’s curse. The idea that you’ve spent so long being recognized for something—your talent, your mind, your energy—that when it starts to fade, you panic. Not because you’ve failed, but because the thing you used to get your sense of worth is running out of gas.

I brought the book with me for the plane rides. Figured I’d highlight a few quotes and maybe come back with some wisdom for later. Instead, I’m sitting there thinking, “I still care way more than I should about being seen as productive.” Not dramatic. Just real. It’s been in me for a long time. Probably still is.

What hit me wasn’t just what he said—it’s how familiar it felt. Not in a heavy or dark way, just in that gut-check sort of way where you recognize a pattern you’ve never really named. Brooks lays it out clearly: you can keep chasing that old high, or you can shift into something better.

That sounded familiar too. Paul said it like this: “Though outwardly we are wasting away, inwardly we are being renewed day by day.” (2 Corinthians 4:16)

That’s not flowery language. That’s reality. And it’s a better kind of strength. One that isn’t so easily taken away.

There’s something freeing about knowing that even when your edge starts to dull a little—when you’re not quite as fast, or impressive, or magnetic as you used to be—it doesn’t mean you’re becoming less. In some ways, it might mean you’re finally becoming more. You start caring less about performance and more about presence. Less about how things look and more about whether they’re real.

That doesn’t come naturally to me. I like to be sharp. I like knowing I can pull things off, that I can make things happen. But the further I go, the more I’m seeing how those things make a lousy place to hang your identity. You can’t live your whole life trying to stay impressive. You’ll burn out, or get bitter, or both.

So I’ve been asking God to help me enjoy the shift.

I don’t want to be someone who’s constantly trying to keep up appearances. I want to be someone who’s okay with letting go of what doesn’t last so I can grab onto what does. Not with a dramatic exit from the world, not with a cabin in the woods and a flip phone—but with peace. With real joy that isn’t tied to being the best at anything.

It’s funny—my kids aren’t thinking about any of this. They’re just living. Just being. They’re just being themselves. Loud, messy, fully alive—and not thinking twice about how they come across. They don’t care who’s watching. And that kind of freedom—that’s something I don’t want to grow out of. That’s something I want to grow back into.

Jesus wasn’t concerned with image management. He didn’t brand himself. He wasn’t climbing a ladder. He just walked with the Father and lived from that place. And when He looked at people, He didn’t see objects—He saw sons and daughters. Whole people. Not projects. Not platforms.

That’s how I want to see others. And it’s how I want to see myself.

We weren’t made to be consumed. We were made to be known and loved. And that starts when we stop trying to prove something and remember what’s already true.

If nothing else, I hope this gave you something to think about—or at least made you feel slightly better about your own footwear.