I was in middle school when I first noticed there was something wrong with me. It was subtle and yet I couldn't shake the feeling. The feeling that something was amiss. So, the madre was consulted and then the physical therapist.
After setting down his tape measure he confirmed my suspicions. Indeed, all was not right.
And so he gave me the prognosis: my left leg was 1 centimeter shorter than my right leg. I bowed my head in sorrow and he held me to his bosom. "We're gonna get through this, sonny," he said.
I noticed the irregularity when I would walk, the horizon bobbing unusually high on a right-leg step and dipping below normal on a left stroke.
So I got a lift to put in my shoe, along with my inserts addressing my already known about flat feet. And things were better. And over time, I went back to check on it in high school.
Good to go.
Ol' lefty had caught up to his parter in kinetics. No more lift necessary. No more bobbing horizon.
But still, even now, I get the feeling of imbalance at times. The feeling of janky body mechanics. Mostly when running. It registered keenly on my senses last night for some reason.
But I usually ignore it, recognizing it as mere mental invention. And this works, like I've learned to ignore the voices. But that's a different story.