Even with high heels I’m barely 5 feet tall.

I’ve bought myself clothes from the kiddie section. I climb shelves at the grocery store to reach milk and coffee on high shelves. I drive with my seat adjusted as far forward and up as possible.

“I can’t believe you’re a grown-up,” my 7-year-old daughter recently told me. “You’re so short.”

Short. Small. Tiny. Shrimpy. Little. Peewee. Half-pint. Peanut. Runt. I’ve been called them all — even the not-so-politically correct names I will not mention. Personally, I prefer “petite” because it sounds feminine and lovely, but really I am just short.

I’m pretty sure I stopped growing when I was in middle school. Since then I’ve been reminded almost daily in direct and indirect ways that I am small.

My height deficiency is most obvious when I’m standing next to my husband, who towers over me at 6 feet 2 inches tall. He’s from Sweden, land of the tall and even taller.

There are certain things we don’t do as a couple because of the difference in our statures. The last time we slow-danced was at our wedding 10 years ago. It just feels and looks awkward; me tip-tippy-toeing to reach his shoulders and him hunching over to hold my waist.

Same story with taking pictures together. Standing side by side for a photo makes for an off-kilter image. Unless the photographer zooms way out, one of us will end up out of frame. So sitting down for pictures has become the preference.

Now my three young daughters are quickly catching up to me. My oldest, 9, stands up to my chin. I’m already imagining that dreadful day, which I’m sure isn’t too far away, when I have to scold or discipline my girls while looking up at them. Or when they talk back while looking down at me.

Despite the razzing, minor inconveniences and mildly embarrassing incidents — like that time when I was 23 and a security guard stopped me at a shopping mall because he thought I was a 12-year-old truant — being short has never really bothered me.

When I played basketball in high school (there is a yearbook photo to prove it), one of my coaches told me as encouragement before a game: “Remember, dynamite comes in small packages.” That stuck with me. I grew up believing I could do anything I put my mind to, regardless of my shortcomings, so to speak.

Maybe it’s because I was raised in a stable, loving home and have been surrounded by supportive, caring people. Maybe it was because of the jokes that I felt driven to do my best and succeed. Whatever the case, I have always strived to carry myself with confidence, fortitude and a positive attitude.

I will, as I have all my life so far, continue to stand tall — or as tall as I possibly can. With or without high heels.

“She Speaks” is a weekly column by women writers of the Honolulu Star-Advertiser. Reach Zenaida Serrano at zserrano@staradvertiser.com.