I like so much wearing heels, legs look so much better

“I like so much wearing heels, legs look so much better, everything looks better. But it’s only recently I’ve had the courage to do that.”
Thus spoke Blanka Vlašić, the Croatian high jumper whose strength and grace made her soar above the earth as though she were born of the wind itself. Yet even she—an athlete crowned in glory, admired by nations—revealed a truth that humbles all who hear it: that courage is not only found in the stadium or the battlefield, but also in the quiet moments when we dare to embrace who we truly are. In her simple confession lies a profound reflection on self-acceptance, femininity, and the freedom to express oneself without fear.

For long years, Blanka was known for her power—for the fierce leap, the sharpened focus, the warrior’s poise. The world admired her strength, but strength, too, can become a cage when it is mistaken for the whole truth of one’s being. To her, perhaps, the act of wearing heels—a symbol of softness, elegance, and beauty—was once shadowed by doubt. Could the world that celebrated her might also accept her grace? Could she be both the athlete and the woman? And so she waited, until the day she found within herself the courage to say, “Yes, I am both. I am many things.”

This is the lesson of her words: that courage does not always roar. Sometimes it is a quiet step, a private gesture of liberation. For courage is not only the defiance of danger—it is the defiance of fear. Fear of judgment, fear of misunderstanding, fear of the eyes that measure and the tongues that whisper. And it is this kind of courage that changes the soul most deeply: the courage to reveal one’s wholeness, to claim both the power and the tenderness that dwell within.

History offers us many examples of such quiet bravery. Consider Queen Hatshepsut of ancient Egypt, who ruled as Pharaoh in a time when no woman dared take the throne. She wore the false beard and regalia of kings—not as a denial of her womanhood, but as a declaration that she could hold the symbols of power and yet remain herself. She understood, as Blanka did, that the outer form—whether a crown or a heel—is not vanity, but expression. It is a way of embodying the fullness of one’s identity, a way of saying to the world: “I will not shrink to fit your comfort.”

Heels, in Blanka’s story, are not merely adornment. They are the emblem of a reclamation—the rediscovery of joy in self-expression, the celebration of beauty not as weakness but as strength. Too often, society divides the qualities of the spirit: power belongs to one realm, grace to another; muscle to the man, beauty to the woman. But life, in its wisdom, makes no such division. To be whole is to be many things at once—to be strong and gentle, bold and elegant, fierce and kind. It takes courage to live this truth openly, to stand before the world and say, “This is all of me.”

Let this be the teaching, then, to all who hear: do not fear to embrace your full self. Whatever part of you has been hidden, waiting—bring it into the light. Whether it is your strength, your softness, your artistry, your voice—own it without apology. For every mask we remove, every hesitation we conquer, adds one more note to the music of our freedom. The world needs not perfection, but authenticity; not conformity, but wholeness. And authenticity always requires courage—the kind that begins in the heart.

So, remember Blanka Vlašić, who could leap higher than any woman of her time, yet found her truest strength in a pair of heels, standing firmly on the earth. Her lesson is simple, yet eternal: the courage to be yourself is the highest jump of all. It is the victory that crowns the soul. Therefore, adorn yourself—not for approval, but for joy. Express yourself—not for applause, but for truth. For when you do, everything looks better, not because the world has changed, but because you have become radiant in your own light.