Sunday, February 8, 2026 1:30 PM MST
In this session of the Women Who Run with the Wolves book club, we enter Chapter 8, where Dr. Estés offers her haunting and unforgettable interpretation of The Red Shoes. This story speaks to the moment when a woman is pulled away from her authentic rhythms—when she is pressured to perform, achieve, please, or prove, even at the cost of her inner life. The red shoes symbolize compulsions that look beautiful from the outside but carry a hidden price: exhaustion, disconnection, and the loss of instinctual guidance. Dr. Estés explores how cultural expectations, internalized perfectionism, and unrelenting productivity can drive us into a kind of psychic over-dancing—where rest feels forbidden, stillness feels unsafe, and saying no feels like failure. And yet, within the story is also the path back: discernment, humility, and the willingness to choose soul over spectacle. This session is for those who sense they have been navigating past the boundaries of their limits for too long and are ready to step out of the red shoes and return to themselves.
Reflection Questions
The Folktale of The Red Shoes
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Where in my life do I feel compelled to keep moving, producing, or performing, even when something in me longs to rest or slow down?
(No fixing required, just noticing.) -
What are my “red shoes”?
These might be habits, roles, expectations, identities, or inner voices that promise belonging or worth—but ask for too much in return. -
How do I know, in my body, when I’ve been dancing too long?
What signals does my nervous system give me when instinct is being overridden? -
Where did I learn that stopping, resting, or saying no might be dangerous, or make me less lovable, worthy, or successful?
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What is the difference, in my own life, between devotion and self-betrayal?
Where is that line clear… and where is it blurred? -
If my instinctual self could remove one pair of red shoes from my life, what might she ask me to set down, just for now?
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What does true rhythm feel like for me, not productivity, not obligation, but a pace that allows breath, pleasure, and presence?
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What kind of permission am I quietly waiting for?
And what would it be like to offer that permission to myself? -
In what ways might humility, discernment, or simplicity be acts of soul-care rather than failure or loss?
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What small act of listening, to body, intuition, or rest, could I practice this week as a way of stepping back into myself?