If the Dress Doesn’t Fit, Let It Try Again
It started with a dress.
The dress.
The one that once made her feel unstoppable — sleek, magnetic, hot as hell.
Today, it felt… tight.
The zipper had an attitude.
The mirror? Passive aggressive.
And her confidence? Sitting somewhere in a corner, sipping flat kombucha and side-eyeing her thighs.
She stood there — hair wild, lip gloss sweating, wrapped in sparkly trauma, looking like she just lost a round with her expectations.
And that’s when it hit her.
She caught herself in the mirror and thought:
“Is it the dress… or is it me?”
Cue: a dramatic sigh.
Cue: me walking in, uninvited, holding a spoon of honey and wearing questionable sunglasses indoors.
I looked at her — tangled in that emotional torture device disguised as couture and did what best friends do best.
I gasped.
I laughed.
I tossed her a spoonful of truth.
“Maybe the dress is the problem.”
She blinked.
“Babe… you’ve grown. In spirit. In boldness. In hips. That dress can’t hold who you are now.”
And that was the moment.
We did what sparkle rebels do.
We ditched the guilt, grabbed the damn honey, and went to find something new.
A boutique. A dressing room. A second chance at joy — not just for the dress, but for the moment.
We giggled. We twirled. We nearly broke the boutique floor.
Somewhere between zippers and chaos, she found it.
Still black. Still bold.
But this one fit her fire — not the other way around.
She looked at me with eyes that sparkled again.
“Do I look ridiculous?”
I grinned.
“Only if ridiculously radiant counts.”
We jumped. We high-fived the mirror. We might’ve accidentally knocked over a hanger stand.
But who cares?
She zipped it up, chin lifted, sass reloaded — and as she walked out like a woman reborn, I whispered under my breath:
“Ciao, Bella.”
Final Truth:
These bodies?
They’ve held heartbreak and hope.
Painted art. Lifted boxes. Kept secrets. Created joy.
They’ve been praised and picked apart.
Stretched for children. Curved with years.
Danced in bedrooms. Shivered in doctor’s offices.
Burned with desire. Trembled with fear.
Softened for love. Armored for survival.
They carry stories no mirror reflects —
And still, they show up. For work. For family. For dreams.
So no, it was never just about the dress.
It’s about how we honor these bodies —
with movement, rest, nourishment…
and sometimes, a spoon of honey that tastes like self-forgiveness.
If they don’t fit into a dress?
The dress can try again.
Honey always fits.
Zippers are temporary.
You? You’re the event.
Ciao for now, sparkle rebels.
The bees are still buzzing about you. 🐝
