I used to think the hardest part of planning a wedding would be the seating chart. Turns out, it was protecting my joy from the very people who should’ve supported it. When I got engaged to Richard, we planned a cozy, romantic spring wedding. I invited my mom and younger sister Jane to help choose my dress—hoping for a bonding moment. Instead, tension filled the room.
The moment I found the dress—off-the-shoulder ivory lace—Jane teared up and said it was perfect. But Mom frowned. “It’s a bit… showy. What if you outshine your sister?” I was stunned. This wasn’t about Jane—it was my wedding. But Mom doubled down, saying I should pick something more “understated” so everyone could enjoy themselves. I bought the dress anyway, hoping she’d come around. She didn’t….
In the weeks before the wedding, Mom kept deflecting attention to Jane’s role—her hair, her shoes—subtly shrinking me in my own celebration.
Then came the wedding day.
Mom walked in with Jane—wearing a white beaded dress. Not ivory. Not champagne. Bridal white. “She didn’t have anything nice to wear,” Mom said. “Let her have this. You’ve got your dress.” I was speechless. Jane didn’t defend me. That hurt more than the dress. But I wore my gown proudly. I walked to Richard and felt nothing but love. Then came the toasts.
Jane took the mic, voice shaking. “Lizzie, I owe you an apology,” she said. “This dress wasn’t for me. It was for Mom. She said you’d outshine me. But all I’ve ever wanted was to be more like you.” She left the room, changed into a navy-blue gown, and returned to applause. For the first time, she chose me too.
Later, Mom said she “just wanted Jane to feel special.” I replied, “You should’ve lifted us both up.” That night, I saw Jane laughing with one of Richard’s friends, relaxed and radiant. Maybe now, we both get to shine—in our own way.
Because I didn’t wear that dress to outshine anyone.
I wore it to finally see myself. And I did.
