Spare a thought for all those women who didn’t fit into Cinderella’s glass slipper, try as they might. Trust me when I say this: Some of them suffocated their feet with plastic bags, hoping the sweat would help them glide in more easily. Others numbed their feet with topical gel, gritting through the pinch. Some simply wore the shoes anyway, smiling through the pain, and peeling them off later in a surcharged Uber, dignity as crumpled as their arches.
How do I know this? I have what I like to call “plus-size feet” because, well, I wasn’t born female, and I’m a size 44 (size 11 or 12 US). I may not have child-bearing hips, but at least that’s ideal for pencil skirts; right now, it’s one of Simone Rocha’s with swirling taffeta roses. I may have broader shoulders, which I’ve learned work best with a halter-neck (right now, an Aaron Esh black silk gown). A career in fashion editing has taught me how to make things ‘work’ with a dart here, a hem there, and enough styling hacks to fill a thesis. And yet, each season, I find my nose pressed against the boutique windows of Saint Laurent, not unlike a Victorian matchstick girl, staring longingly at a pair of slingbacks that refuse to accommodate anyone above a size 41.
No diet, no surgery, no tailoring tricks—not even the resilient determination it takes to confront staring crowds as I, at just a tad over six feet tall, stride down the street in a pair of four inch stilettos—will get me into those shoes.
You’d think, perhaps, that trans people had enough on their plates. The irony is that most cis women I know prefer sneakers and flat shoes.
Exclusion is hardly a novel sin in fashion. Despite the spikes in representation on runways, magazine covers, and advertising campaigns, there is still a lot left to be desired by the average person walking into a store, hoping to spend their money on something nice to wear. The fashion and beauty industries regularly disappoint those who deviate from their narrow blueprints, whether due to textured hair, plus-size bodies, or darker skin tones. And perhaps one of the last frontiers is footwear.
Yet where there is a will, there is a way. Depending on the style of shoe, I can usually make it work. As Celine Dion said in her documentary, “When a girl loves her shoes, she always makes them fit.” While few fashion houses design shoes that go up to a size 41 or 42, some will occasionally go up to a 43. And believe me, I will stretch into that 43. Currently on rotation in my wardrobe are low-heeled strappy sandals and ivory satin mules from Jimmy Choo (both size 42), a pair of Celine cowboy boots (a 43, stretched by my cobbler), and a pair of leopard ponyskin ballet flats from Anderson & Sheppard (size 44; the feminization of menswear can be a boon). I’ve bandaged my feet into submission, bribed cobblers to stretch stilettos, but as much as I try, there will always be shoes that I’d happily bankrupt myself to own but don’t get the chance to—even flats.
And I’m not alone. For many trans and gender-nonconforming people, shopping for affirming clothing is riddled with compromise. When I text Laverne Cox, red carpet royalty and an archival couture connoisseur, she replies, a little wearily, “I’m no longer wearing open-toe shoes.” These days, she goes custom and recommends a site called OnlyMaker, which specializes in heels for bigger feet. They’re decent Gianvito Rossi dupes and even Manolo-esque pumps, but they’re mass-produced in China, not always the finest quality, and soon subject to extortionate tariffs. Thank you once again, Trump.
There are brands catering to larger sizes—generally independents and generally rooted in queer sex shops, where trans communities have long found refuge. But more often than not, their aesthetic is fetish-driven rather than fashion-forward: think towering platforms and patent leather. Less Phoebe Philo, more Pleasers. As for that Cinderella moment of unpacking an elegant box and peeling back the tissue paper to get a whiff of Italian craftsmanship, well, plastic doesn’t quite give the same happily-ever-after.
Heels, for many trans women, can be paradoxical. On the one hand, they’re affirming, transformative, and defiant. They recalibrate posture, attitude, and silhouette. On the other, they heighten—quite literally—one’s visibility in a world that too often makes that visibility dangerous.
Still, there are glimmers of change. A small but mighty cohort of designers is reimagining footwear for broader, longer feet: Abraham Ortūno Perez’s Abra, GCDS in Milan, Stefano Pilati’s Random Identities, Maison Ernest in Pigalle, Courrèges, and, of course, Jimmy Choo, all extend to sizes larger than a 42. As model and actress Raya Martigny told me, these shifts usually happen because designers have spent time with trans and queer people. They’ve listened.
“Most luxury footwear factories are in Italy, which is still a conservative country, so I don’t think they want to make shoes in bigger sizes, especially if they know that it’s not for cis women with bigger feet,” she explains. “Sometimes there will be shoes for the models, which are bigger, so those might be available if you ask, but it’s hard to find. It’s worth looking on the resale market, too, because sometimes designers did bigger shoe sizes in the past. And [you should] find a good cobbler because they can change a lot about a shoe, whether it’s the color or stretching them out.”
Personally, I wear stilettos for everything—cycling, commuting, getting groceries. But the trans community, like any community, really, is not a monolith. Not every trans woman wants to feel like they’re performing femininity on stilts. Not everyone wants their shoes to scream. Some crave simplicity: clean lines, sensible heels, a pair of loafers that whisper, “I’m just here to live my life.” Some may even want to explore the endlessly evolving “ugly shoe” trend, and that’s their prerogative.
When I call up my friend Ava van Osdol, a photographer and stylist, she tells me that she’s working on a shoe line that addresses just that. “I just want a fucking sensible heel! I don’t want hooker shoes! I want to be able to walk into a meeting and feel feminine, and not be wearing Pleasers.” Day to day, van Osdol wears a pair of size 42 Chanel slingbacks that go with everything (Coco Chanel famously said, “a woman in good shoes is never ugly,” which only twists the knife further in my case). “A lot of heel heights don’t make me feel comfortable and confident, where I’m like towering over everyone on a Tuesday night.”
Van Osdol’s advice? “You can go custom, but it’s expensive. It’s like paying a tax for having bigger feet.” She’s also learned the hard way that a Chanel 42 is not the same as an Isabel Marant 42. When in doubt: Etsy. “You can find versions of the shoes you want—even Tabis—and some aren’t bad quality, though yes, you’re sacrificing a bit of integrity.”
Everyone is different. While I love pencil skirts and heels, Osdol enjoys wearing oversized clothes and shoes and letting herself be the most feminine part of her appearance. “When I started my transition, I was in hyper-femme miniskirts and hot pink colours—kind of like the way Jules dresses at the start of Euphoria, because it was really in my system and something that I wanted to express. Where I’m at now, baggy pants and like a menswear-style coat with a blowout—oooooh, now that is gender euphoria!”
For Dara Allen, stylist and fashion director at Interview, heels are non-negotiable. Even after 12-hour days on set or getting Hunter Schaffer ready for the red carpet, her go-to remains a classic black Manolo. “For me, it’s not about whether I’m fitting into this idea of what I’m supposed to be in the world. It makes me feel nothing can stop me because it is the way I dream about looking and the way I’m excited to look. That comes with that shoe and the whole silhouette, and I don’t want to give that up just because maybe I’m gonna become too tall in the world.”
Fashion, at its best, is a language of self-expression. A preppy skirt with biker boots a la Miu Miu, a Saint Laurent Le Smoking suit with gilded slingbacks, that Chloé combo of chiffon blouse and grounded suede boots—the right shoe doesn’t just complete the outfit, it completes the story. The wrong one can dissolve the fantasy entirely. And for many trans people, fantasy can be survival.
It’s already a difficult enough world for trans people to navigate, so designers, if you’re reading this, please take note. As Dara eloquently put it during our discussion: “If you go to the store and it’s impossible to find something that fits you, you start thinking you need to change your body to fit into what’s available. Why shouldn’t this thing, which is fully man-made, be changed to fit us, instead of the other way around? It can make such a difference to people because it eases and quietens such an anxiety and allows you to just live the other parts of your life that are more important.”
As the saying goes: if the shoe fits… Well, until then, I’ll still find a way to wear them.
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