My longtime friend, Mia, who I’ve known since high school, is undoubtedly the most laid-back bride I’ve ever encountered. Believe me, I’ve seen my fair share of brides. There was zero trace of Bridezilla in her demeanor; instead, the chaos was entirely mine.
What could possibly cause such turmoil on the day I stand by one of my closest friends? Well, apart from approaching 40, saying goodbye to one of my last single friends, and the series of social gatherings with unfamiliar faces—there was also the weight of almost 90 extra pounds hanging over me, along with a dwindled confidence that left me dateless for the wedding.
Yet, none of these factors matched the anxiety brought on by one thing: the dress.
You know the type—the bridesmaid who’s often tucked away at the back, perhaps hiding in a shawl to cover up her upper arms, clutching her bouquet tightly to mask unflattering areas. She stands out as the odd one— the one who isn’t slender, tall, or conventionally attractive.
That was me.
Mia generously allowed us to pick out our own dresses, as long as we adhered to her chosen color and fabric. This was no shock, given her kind nature. Mia possesses an incredible ability to make everyone around her feel like supermodels with genius-level intellect. Even without the exterior beauty we might desire (and she certainly radiated), she had this uncanny knack for uplifting spirits. Thanks to her friendship, I felt empowered enough to believe that when I selected my dress, I might just resemble the stylish bridesmaid from those glossy magazines.
This wasn’t my first brush with self-doubt cloaked in layers of chiffon and tulle. Back in 1987, during my sister’s wedding, I found myself among six petite bridesmaids, all weighing no more than 110 pounds, wearing a dress that could only be described as a late-80s fashion nightmare. The ensemble, a hybrid of Dynasty and over-the-top glam, featured a voluminous skirt, plunging neckline, and puffed sleeves reminiscent of Joan Collins. At 17, towering at 5’10” and far exceeding the weight limit, I looked a bit like an NFL player in disguise.
To make matters worse, the dress only came in a size 12, and at that time, I was a size 14. My mother and sister insisted I drop at least one dress size before the wedding, which sent me scrambling to aerobics classes three times a week, following a strict diet of turkey, melba toast, and celery.
I ultimately wore a different dress that fit me better, allowing me to embrace my height and curvier figure. But instead of gratitude, I faced accusations of sabotaging the wedding—everything from ruining the photos to sullying their perfect day.
Fast forward over two decades, and as I opened the plastic covering the bridesmaid dress for Mia’s wedding, I felt a sense of relief. Armed with the experience of my earlier wedding woes, I had ordered the gown in a size three sizes larger than needed. Plus, I was thrilled to have lost 46 pounds since Mia had asked me to be a part of her big day, inching closer to that once-elusive size 14.
At my mother’s house, I slipped into the gown, which was certainly loose around the waist and hips. But as I reached for the zipper, my mother struggled to close it. When it got halfway up my back, it became clear that it wouldn’t budge any further.
“Are you bringing a date to the wedding?” she asked, adjusting the fabric awkwardly.
“Not planning to,” I replied softly.
“Good,” she remarked, surveying the dress. “Because it really doesn’t do anything for you.”
In that moment, I looked in the mirror, recalling the aqua-blue gown I wore as a child during the All Saints’ Day pageant. I felt completely transformed, yet not necessarily in a good way. Instead of a holy glow, I felt closer to something out of Leviticus. I was far from the radiant bride or even the charming bridesmaid. Instead, I was caught in a whirlwind of insecurities, the Electric Hemorrhoid gown emphasizing all the wrong places as I struggled to see anything beautiful about my reflection.
Before I could tackle the dress dilemma, I faced the more significant challenge of reconciling my self-image. Years of conditioning led me to believe I was unacceptable and unattractive.
To address the dress issue, I turned to social media for support. A local seamstress, recommended by my friend Lisa, became my last hope. I drove to her studio carrying my Electric Hemorrhoid gown, ready to face the reality of my measurements, which were far from the idealized figures I had long envied.
The seamstress worked her magic, pinning and tucking until the gown finally fit, albeit not in the way I had initially envisioned. Leaving the studio, I felt a strange mix of relief and apprehension.
A week later, as I stood beside Mia on her wedding day, she smiled at me, her eyes reflecting the years of friendship we had shared. In that moment, I realized that she didn’t see the old, insecure bridesmaid—I was simply her friend. If only I could embrace that same belief in myself.
Ultimately, I would endure any amount of discomfort to honor my friend on her special day. I learned to appreciate the love around me, which might just help me start loving myself, too.
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Summary
This reflective piece shares the journey of Leah, a bridesmaid grappling with self-image issues while supporting her friend Mia on her wedding day. Through memories of a past wedding and the challenges of finding a fitting dress, Leah confronts her insecurities and the perception of beauty. Ultimately, she discovers the importance of friendship and begins to embrace self-acceptance, realizing that true beauty comes from within.