I never thought something as simple as feet could make me feel so… invisible.
But there I was, standing in the shoe store, staring at sandals I wanted to wear, while quietly sliding my cracked, dry heels back into my sneakers. No matter how cute the shoes were, I couldn’t bring myself to try them on.
My heels were embarrassing. Thick, dry skin. Deep cracks that sometimes bled. I’d scrub them, soak them, even buy fancy creams. Nothing worked longer than a day or two. The cracks always came back, worse than before.
One night, after a long day, I sat on the edge of my bed rubbing lotion onto my feet like I’d done a hundred times before. Mira, my little girl, walked in and sat beside me.
“Mama, your feet look like they’re sad,” she said softly.
I laughed. But that comment stayed with me.
A few days later, while visiting my mother, I mentioned it. She looked at my heels, tsked, and said, “Why didn’t you just ask me?”
She walked into her kitchen and pulled out a red onion.
I stared. “For cracked heels?”
She nodded. “Trust me. This is older than any cream you’ve tried.”
She peeled the onion and cut it in half. Then she scooped out the soft center, just enough to create a little pocket inside. Into that, she added a spoon of coconut oil and a pinch of salt.
“Put your heels inside the onion halves,” she said. “Wrap them with a cloth and leave them on for twenty minutes. Do it every night for a week.”
I did.
And after just three nights… something changed.
The dry skin started softening. The cracks, once painful and deep, looked calmer. By the end of the week, my heels were smooth—really smooth—for the first time in years.
But more than the softness, what surprised me most was how cared for I felt.
Because it wasn’t just about beauty. It was about healing something I’d neglected.
I had forgotten what it felt like to love my feet.
They’d carried me through two pregnancies. Through years of walking to work, grocery trips, school runs, and kitchen days that lasted from dawn to dinner. They deserved more than being covered and ignored.
But like so many women, I had poured everything into everyone else.
I bought Mira her favorite shampoo, Rehan the best walking shoes, kept the house spotless—yet I didn’t think twice about the feet that carried me through all of it.
That week with the onion felt like something I didn’t even know I needed.
Quiet. Simple. Restorative.
Every evening after dinner, I’d prepare the mix. Half an onion. Scoop the center. Fill with a spoon of coconut oil and a sprinkle of salt. Some nights I added turmeric, other nights I left it plain.
I’d sit with my heels wrapped, letting the scent fill the room while Mira read or played nearby. She started calling it my “foot spa time.”
“Can I do it too?” she asked once, holding her tiny feet up.
I laughed. “You don’t need it yet, sweetie. But someday, I’ll show you.”
And just like that, I knew—I was starting a little tradition.
By the end of the second week, my feet looked completely different.
No cracks. No dryness. The hard skin had softened into smooth, pink soles I hadn’t seen in years.
Even Rehan noticed. “Wow,” he said one night as I walked barefoot across the living room. “You really did something magical.”
“It was just an onion,” I smiled. “And a little consistency.”
He chuckled. “That’s the magic part—you stuck with it.”
And maybe that’s what it really was. Not just the remedy. But the fact that I finally gave myself permission to care for myself without guilt.
I shared the story with my cousin Samira during our weekend call.
“You’re telling me a red onion healed those monster cracks?” she said, half-laughing.
I lifted my foot to the camera. “You tell me.”
She stared. “Okay, I need this recipe. Like yesterday.”
So I typed it out for her. Then sent it to my friend Sana. Then to my neighbor who’d been hiding her heels in winter socks since May.
It spread like a secret being passed between tired women who finally had hope again.
By the third week, I started wearing my old sandals again.
Not the ones with full backs. The open ones. The ones I hadn’t touched in over four years.
It felt silly to tear up over shoes, but I did. I looked down at my feet and didn’t feel shame. I felt freedom.
Freedom from hiding. From discomfort. From the little voice that always said, “Cover that up.”
And for the first time, I didn’t just walk into a room—I stood there. Fully. Barefoot. Proud.
Mira noticed the change too.
She’d come home from school and say, “Mama, are your feet still happy today?”
And I’d nod. “They are.”
Then one day, she came in after playing outside and said, “My feet are tired.”
So I brought her to the kitchen, peeled a baby onion, and showed her the steps.
We didn’t even need the salt. Just the oil and the ritual.
As I wrapped her feet, she smiled. “This feels like love.”
I kissed her forehead. “That’s exactly what it is.”
Now, once a week, we have “foot night.” No screens. Just warm water, oil, and onion halves waiting patiently.
Sometimes we talk. Sometimes we’re quiet.
But every time, I feel something settle inside me.
It’s more than skincare. It’s connection. To myself. To my roots. To my daughter.
Because my mother did this. And her mother before her.
They didn’t call it self-care. They called it knowing how to look after what carries you.
Three months in, I haven’t seen a single crack return.
Even in winter. Even after long days on my feet. They’re soft. Strong. Beautiful.
More than that, they’re mine again.
And I can’t help but think how many other women are walking around with hidden pain. Feet that hurt. Skin that aches. Hearts that believe this is just “how it has to be.”
But it doesn’t.
It really doesn’t.
If that’s you, try this.
Take a red onion. Slice it in half. Scoop out a little center.
Add one teaspoon of coconut oil. A pinch of salt. Optional: a bit of turmeric.
Place each heel inside the onion like a little bowl. Wrap with cloth or cling film. Sit for twenty minutes. Breathe.
Rinse with warm water. Moisturize.
Repeat daily for one week, then 2–3 times a week after that.
And as you do, remind yourself: this is not about vanity.
It’s about care.
You don’t have to earn softness. Or comfort. Or healing.
You’re already worthy of it.
If this story reminded you of someone who hides their feet—or hides their pain—share it with them.
And if you felt seen in these words, like this post.
Because healing doesn’t always come in a bottle.
Sometimes, it’s just a red onion… and someone finally choosing to say, I deserve to feel whole again.
