When I visited my parents, my mother asked me about a few concerns she had about her body.
She told me she was worried about her rounded posture and her bunions.
The pain from the bunions had settled down for now, but she said,
“I’m always afraid they’ll start hurting again someday.”
As we talked, I found myself looking at her feet.
One thing I noticed was her toes.
Most people can’t move their toes as freely as they move their fingers.
I think that’s simply because we don’t use them very much anymore.
I can pick up a towel from the floor with my toes, almost like a claw machine.
For my mother, it was surprisingly difficult.
It wasn’t that she couldn’t do it well.
It felt more like her toes had forgotten how.
But I’m sure there was a time when she could.
The human body is fragile in some ways.
And yet, it is also remarkably well designed.
The more attention you give it, the more it seems to respond.
A little like caring for a beloved car.
Or brushing a beloved dog.
It made me wonder:
How many people spend time caring for the soles of their feet?
I told my mother that I thought the muscles in her calves and feet had become a little weak.
Sometimes a rounded back or a protruding belly isn’t only about the core.
Sometimes it begins much farther down.
In my mind, the toes, the soles of the feet, and the calves are like the foundation of a house.
The ground beneath it.
The supporting pillars.
When we’re younger, we can get away with a weak foundation because the rest of the house is still strong.
The walls look fine.
The roof holds up.
But as we age, the larger muscles and joints gradually change too.
And when that happens, the weaknesses in the foundation begin to show.
The knees start to bend.
The back begins to round.
Whenever I see that posture, I can’t help but think:
Maybe this is what happens when the body no longer has enough strength to stand comfortably against gravity.
That’s why I told my mother to pay attention to her feet while she still could.
To look at them.
To touch them.
To notice them.
Years ago, I met a woman in her nineties who still walked with remarkable energy.
I remember looking at her feet.
Her toes were spread apart with space between each one, like an open fan.
They were long, straight, and surprisingly beautiful.
Without thinking, I said,
“You have beautiful feet.”
She smiled and replied,
“When I take a bath, I wash each toe carefully.”
“And then I dry each one, one by one.”
What surprised me was that she wasn’t the only person who had said that.
Over the years, there have been two elderly women whose feet left a strong impression on me.
Both of them gave almost exactly the same answer.
One by one.
They cared for their toes the same way they cared for their fingers.
And somehow, their feet still seemed capable of doing the work they were designed to do.
Supporting them.
Carrying them.
Keeping them moving.
I also realized something else.
If you can comfortably wash and dry your toes one by one, it means you can still get into that position with ease.
It means your body still moves in many different ways.
I’ve met many people who struggle to trim their toenails.
Many who find it difficult to sit on the floor to put on socks or trousers.
And over time, I began to notice a connection.
As those movements disappear, so do many of the opportunities to pay attention to our feet.
I don’t think mobility comes from a single stretch.
Or one perfect exercise.
It seems to come from something quieter than that.
From the small ways we continue using our bodies in daily life.
Just as our emotions rise and fall, our bodies have their own rhythms too.
And the more time we spend observing them,
touching them,
and living alongside them,
the easier it becomes to notice the subtle changes.
Something feels a little different today.
I feel lighter than yesterday.
That movement seems easier now.
Small things.
But meaningful things.
As my parents grow older, I can’t help but notice it.
Sometimes it makes me a little sad.
But the truth is, they are still here.
Still walking.
Still living their lives.
And because of that, there is something I want to share with them while I still can.
Not advice.
Not rules.
Just this:
Look at your feet.
Touch them.
Move each toe, one by one.
Maybe those small moments of attention
are part of what helps keep a body supple for years to come.
At least, that’s what I believe.