I Still Tie My Shoes with Bunny Ears

January 4, 2026

Writer: Gretchen Quill

Editor: Paige Schachtel

I hold my shoelace and fold it into two loops. I move my fingers so that the strings hug one another, and I pull tight. 

I still tie my shoes the same way I did when I was five, using the same choreography they teach you when you believe in the tooth fairy and leave cookies out for Santa on Christmas eve. Everyone used the bunny ear method and then somewhere along the way went pro, trading this playground-approved knot for the one loop magic trick. I'm not sure if this method was introduced to me and I disregarded it, or if I found it too difficult and stuck to the old faithful bunny that I knew so well. But I never grew out of this ritual. My technique was perfected. It worked within seconds, ensuring that my laces survived recess football games, made it through after-school cartwheels, and endured backyard track meets with my three older brothers (where I invariably earned the honorable 4th-place ribbon). I didn't realize until much later that everyone else had quietly moved onto this refined and sophisticated knot tying method, leaving their days of bunny ears behind them. 

I hold onto fragments of my childhood with an extremely tight grasp. My college room is decorated with my favorite children’s books, I always carry a deck of Uno in my bag, I wear plastic handmade beaded bracelets on my wrists, and I attach silly keychains to my purses. It's also crucial that I eat colorful cereal for dinner, and I of course make sure all my stuffed animals are comfortably tucked in before I go to sleep each night. 

Though I find all these rituals and trinkets comforting, I can’t escape the feeling that I am perpetually trailing behind my peers. The way I tie my shoes is merely the curtain for how far behind I feel in milestones, life experiences, relationships, and all the other things I feel I'm supposed to have done or achieved by age 21. I started driving two years later than what was standard (and I also failed my road test not once, but twice). I was the last of my high school friends to have my first kiss, and got my first boyfriend when it felt like my friends had already experienced every single type of romantic relationship. I also still don’t have a LinkedIn, and I only recently realized I'm not sure what kind of job I want. 

“Everyone moves at their own pace!” is often the response I'm met with when I voice these worries. It always stings a little, like a gentle way of saying, "You're just moving a lot slower and are SUPER behind everyone else—but it’s okay!” I know this sentiment is well-intentioned and rooted in care, and I'm trying to shift it into something that doesn’t make me feel such embarrassment or guilt. Maybe moving slower isn’t a flaw—it’s simply my way of moving through the world. Taking my time doesn’t erase or diminish what I’ve accomplished; it allows me to notice the small moments and the quiet joys that rushing forward might cause me to miss. My slower path is still a path—and perhaps one with a little more awareness and a little more muchness along the way. 

Tonight I will make myself a bowl of the most colorful cereal I can find, tuck my stuffed animals into their respective sleeping arrangements, and remove my brightly beaded stack of bracelets to rest on my bedside table, ready to put them on first thing in the morning. I’ll sleep comfortably knowing that I'll still reach the finish line just fine—even with my bunny ear-tied laces.