Lesson: How can we learn to find our NO so that we can find our YES and honour our agreements with integrity?

At its core, The Red Shoes, as retold by Clarissa Pinkola Estés in Women Who Run With the Wolves, is a story about what happens when we abandon our authentic instincts in exchange for cheap thrills, approval, or performance.

In the book it talks about the feral creature - a wild animal that was domesticated, then let out into the wild again but needs to relearn it’s untamed instincts. There are various lured to which we are susceptible; relationships, people and ventures that are tempting, but inside that good-looking bait is something sharpened to the point, something that kills our spirit as soon as we bite into it.

‘The feral woman is usually extremely hungry for something soulful and often will take any poison disguised on a pointed stick, believing it to be the thing for which her soul craves.’

It follows a young girl who becomes captivated by a pair of shiny red shoes. Once she puts them on, she can’t stop dancing. What begins as enchantment turns into compulsion, and eventually, the shoes must be cut off for her to find peace and return to herself.

The red shoes represent what we chase when we’re disconnected from our soul life—external validation, constant productivity, or the pressure to “keep dancing” even when we’re exhausted. It’s a cautionary tale about the cost of being pulled away from our deeper rhythm.

It reminds us that power isn’t just in action, it’s in discernment. Saying no to what glitters gives us space to say yes to what’s real. And that, especially at Solstice, is true sovereignty.When we engage with these ancient tales, we embark on a journey of self-discovery. They remind us that our challenges are part of a larger, shared human experience, echoing through time. In these stories, we are granted permission to release, grieve, and transform, and to reclaim what has been lost. Myths gently guide us back to our truest selves, showing that healing often begins in the dark, where inner strength and profound transformation quietly await.

Once there was a poor motherless child who had no shoes. But the child saved cloth scraps where’ve she found them and over time sewed herself a pair of read shoes. They were crude but she loved them. They made her feel rich even though her days were spent gathering food in the thorny woods until far past dark.

But one day as she trudged down the road in her rags and her red shoes, a gilded carriage pulled up beside her. Inside was an old woman who told her she was going to take her home and teat her as her own little daughter. So to the wealthy old woman’s house they went, and the child’s hair was cleaned and combed. She was given pure white undergarments and a fine wool dress and white stockings and shiny black shoes. When the child asked after her old clothes, and especially her red shoes, the old woman said the clothes were so filty, and the shoes so ridiculous, that she had thrown them into the fire, where they were burnt to ashes.

The child was very sad, for even with all the riches surrounding her, the humble red shoes made by her own hands had given her the greatest happiness. Now, she was made to sit still all the time, to walk without skipping, and to not speak unless spoken to, but a secret fire began to burn in her heart and she continued to year for her old red shoes more than anything.

As the child was old enough to be confirmed on The Day of The Innocents, the old woman took her to an old crippled shoemaker to have a pair of shoes made for the occasion. In the shoemaker’s case there stood a pair of red shoes made of finest leather that were finer than fine; they practically glowed. So even though red shoes were scandalous for church, the child, who chose only with her hungry heart, picked the red shoes. The old lady’s eyesight was so poor she could not see the colour of the shoes and so paid for them. The old shoemaker winked at the child and wrapped the shoes up.

The next day, the church members were agog over the shoes on the child’s feet. The red shoes shone like burnished apples, like hearts, like red-washed plums, Everyone stared; even the icons on the wall, even the statues stared disapprovingly at her shoes. But she loved the shoes all the more. So when the pontiff intoned, the choir hummed, the organ pumped, the child thought nothing more beautiful than her red shoes.

By the end of the day the old woman had been informed about her ward’s red shoes. “Never, never wear those red shoes again!” The old woman threatened. But the next Sunday, the child couldn’t help but choose the red shoes over the black ones, and she and the old woman walked to church as usual.

At the door to the church was an old soldier with his arm in a sling. He wore a little red jacket and had a red beard. He bowed and asked permission to brush the dust from the child’s shoes. The child put out her foot and he tapped the soles of her shoes with a little wig-a-jig-jig song that made the soles of her feet itch. ‘Remember to stay for the dance,” he smiled and winked at her.

Again everyone looked askance at the girl’s red shoes. But she so loved the shoes that were bright like crimson, bright like raspberries, bright like pomegranates, that she could hardly think of anything else, hardly hear the service at all. So busy was she turning her feet this way and that, admiring her red shoes, that she forgot to sing.

As she and the old woman left the church, the injured soldier called out, “What beautiful dancing shoes!” His words made the girl take a few little twirls right there and then. But once her feet had begun to move, they would not stop and she danced through the flower beds and around the corner of the church until it seemed as though she has lost complete control of herself. She did a gavotte and then a pirouette and then waltzed by herself through the fields across the way.

The old woman’s coachman jumped up from his bench and ran after the girl, picked her up, carried her back to the carriage, but the girls feet in the red shoes were still dancing in the air as though they were still on the ground. The old woman and the coachman tugged and pulled, trying to pry the red shoes off. It was such a sight, all hats askew and kicking legs, but at last the child’s feet were calmed.

Back home, the old woman slammed the red shoes down high on a shelf and warned the girl never to touch them again. But the girl could not help looking up at them and longing for them. To her they were still the most beauteous things on the face of the earth.

Not long after, as fate would ave it, the old woman became bedridden, and as soon as her doctors left, the girl crept in the room where the red shoes were kept. She glanced up at them so high on the shelf. Her glance became a gaze and her gaze became a powerful desire, so much so that the girl took the shoes from the shelf and fastened them on, feeling it would do no harm. But as soon as they touched her heels and toes, she was overcome by the urge to dance.

And so out the door she danced, and then down the steps, first in a gavotte, then a pirouette and then in a big daring waltz turns in rapid succession. The girl was in her glory and did not realise she was in trouble until she wanted to dance to the left and the shoes insisted on dancing to the right. When she wanted to dance round, the shoes insisted straight ahead. And as the shoes danced the girl, rather than the other way around, they danced her right down the road, through the muddy fields and out into the dark and gloomy forest.

There against a tree was the old soldier with the red beard, his arm in a sling and dressed in his little jacket. “Oh my,” he said, “what beautiful dancing shoes.” Terrified, she tried to pull the shoes off, but as much as she tugged, the shoes stayed fast. She hopped on one foot and then the other trying to take off the shoes, but her one foot on the ground kept dining even so, and her other foot in her hand did its part of the dance also.

And so dance, and dance and dance, she did. Over highest hills and through the valleys, in the rain and in the snow and in the sunlight, she danced. She danced in the darkest night and through sunrise and she was still dancing in twilight as well. But it was not good dancing. It was terrible dancing and there was no rest for her.

She dance into a churchyard and there a spirit of dread would not allow her to enter. The spirit pronounced these words over her, “You shall dance in your red shoes until you become like a wraith, like a ghost, till your skin hangs from your bones, till there is nothing left on you but entrails dancing. You shall dance door to door through all the villages and you shall strike each door three times and when people peer out they will see you and fear your fate for themselves. Dance red shoes, you shall dance.”

The girl begged for mercy, but before she could plead further, her red shoes carried her away. Over briars she danced, through the streams, over the hedgerows and on and on, dancing, still dancing till she came to her old home and there were mourners. The old woman who had taken her in had died. Yet even so, she danced on by, and danced she did, as dance she must. In abject exhaustion and horror, she danced into a forest where lived the town’s executioner. And the as on his wall Behan to tremble as soon as it sensed her coming near.

“Please!” She begged the executioner as she danced by his door. “Please cut off my shoes to free me from this horrid fate.” And the executioner cut through the straps of the red shoes with his aw. But still the shoes stayed on her feet. And so she cried to him that her life was worth nothing and that he should cut off her feet. So he cut off there feet. And the red shoes with the feet in them kept dancing through the forest and over the hill and out of sight. And now the girl was a poor cripple, and had to find her own way in the world as a servant to others, and she never, ever again wished for red shoes.

All the characters in these stories are parts of ourselves. Each character is a mirror to an inner dynamic. Together, they help us explore how we abandon, numb, or betray ourselves—and how we find our way back to rootedness, discernment, and creative integrity.

The Orphaned Girl – This is our vulnerable, instinctual self: the part of us that longs for love, belonging, and beauty, but is easily overlooked or abandoned when we don’t feel seen or valued. She represents our raw longing and creative hunger.

The Old Woman (Caretaker) – Symbolises the part of us that conforms for safety or social acceptance. Though she offers care, she may also suppress our wildness, urging us to be “good,” tame, and appropriate—often at the cost of authenticity.

The Red Shoes – These are not a character, but they act like one. They symbolize compulsive behavior, addiction to performance, and the pursuit of external validation. When worn, they “dance us” instead of us dancing with intention.

The Executioner – This character holds the power of fierce compassion. He represents the part of us willing to do what’s necessary to break free—setting hard boundaries, ending a toxic cycle, or cutting away what no longer serves, in order to return to wholeness.    

Where am I saying yes out of habit, obligation, or fear of missing out—rather than from a place of true alignment? - What commitments or roles feel like the red shoes—beautiful but exhausting?

What boundaries do I need to strengthen in order to honour my energy at this peak time of light? - How can I protect what is most sacred and life-giving for me right now?

Where in my life am I ‘dancing too hard’, pushing, performing, or proving and what would it look like to pause or rest instead? - Can I let myself step out of the performance and come back to my own rhythm?

What does true creative or soul-full flowering look like for me this season?
- What do I want to bloom into, and what do I need to let go of to grow there with integrity?