The reality of becoming Mother of the Bride is starting to set in. I’m realizing I am going to have to up my game and probably not wear a sports bra.
Our daughter Megan is getting married this September, which officially gives me the coveted title of Mother of the Bride (MOB). In my head, MOB means refined, understated but classic and……looks ok in the photos. My aspiration is tasteful, graceful and make it look effortless. Yes, my ego is in overdrive but it’s a big day and I don’t want to muck it up. I’m going to need more Spanx and likely some mascara.
For past significant events, I have consistently missed the mark. I wasn’t “stylishly pulled together.” I had perfected a look that often made people raise their eyebrows and ask, “did she check the mirror before she left the house?” No lie. For major events, despite my best efforts, I looked like I’d wandered into a thrift store blindfolded and shoplifted chaos. No one—absolutely no one—comes to me for fashion advice. Especially the visually impaired. I suck.
Last year my friend Marie’s daughter got married, and Marie looked incredible. She was radiant and regal. She floated and everything about her was graceful, and yes, effortless. She wore a navy blue pantsuit. Naturally, I thought, I should also wear a pantsuit. Why rewrite the book, better to copy and paste.
Marie went to an actual store, tried hers on, and ensured it fit. I chose Russian Roulette and shopped online. I typed “perfect MOB navy pantsuit” and landed on a cute little boutique shop called Lily and Kate Vancouver. Lily and Kate Vancouver just sounded so fashionably fabulous! It’s a mother-daughter business that they have owned together for 25 years. I loved their pantsuit. Luxurious fabric, ease of movement and with stylish flair. The model in the photo looked amazing. I wanted to look amazing. It’s a big day, and I’ve seen the photos from my other “big days.” and they were very big FAILS.
Lily and Kate Vancouver was a blessing. I found my outfit. Even better, it was regularly priced for $389. Since it was January, they were having a blowout sale for $89. Perfect. Classy and cheap! My favourite combination. Which is where I get into trouble. Cheap is not classy; that’s called a thrift store.
Six weeks later—six weeks for something allegedly coming from Vancouver (6 hours away)—it arrived. I tore open the package and held it up. Something was wrong. It was navy but that’s where the promises ended.
Friends, this was not a pantsuit. This was a blue polyester tablecloth that had been aggressively given legs. Scratchy blue polyester that made you feel like you were suffocating and couldn’t breathe. Clingy in the wrong places. The seams were big and thick. I’m sure they were sewn by an inmate who just didn’t give a shit. And the zipper! OMG! I couldn’t even reach the zipper. Who makes it hard to get in and out of a pantsuit? Definitely a male inmate who had strong feelings about pantsuits. There was nothing redeeming about this outfit. This was bad. Not even accessorizing with a napkin was going to help.
I don’t think Lily and Kate Vancouver was the charming mother/daughter boutique store I thought it was. I am pretty sure Lily and Kate are actually called Temu. You probably saw that coming. I am an optimist with a credit card. “Hope keeps the agony alive.” I fell for late night shopping wishful thinking and ended up buying a tablecloth for my daughter’s wedding. I totally suck.
A few weeks later, my friend Eleanor sent me a photo of a dress and said, “My pick for your MOB outfit. Classy but not too sassy.” I thought she was insane. It was a beautiful dress but it was shiny and maybe even slightly sexy. Absolutely not something I would choose. It looked so “revealing”. No way. Pass me the Afghan blanket off the couch, I’m sure I can make a skirt.
But Eleanor is that woman. Rolls out of bed flawless. Effortless style. Also brave—she left a safe job, retrained, and reinvented her life. She is AH-mazing! So I listened.
I had nothing to lose and Eleanor knows her stuff.
The dress was beautiful. Luxurious. Somehow smoothing instead of spotlighting every lump, bump, and questionable life choice I’ve ever made. I looked elegant. Actual elegance. And it was nothing I would have chosen on my own.
Which is the point.
We need mirrors and guardrails in our lives. When I’m my only mirror, my inner monologue confidently orders a blue polyester pantsuit. That’s not intuition—it’s unchecked self‑talk with free shipping.
Other people often see us more clearly than we see ourselves. They notice strengths while we’re busy inventorying flaws. They offer a cleaner mirror. One that hasn’t been warped by fear, habit, or insecurities. It is not distorted or cloudy. Often, it is others who see us more clearly than we see ourselves.
So what story are we telling ourselves?
And is it actually true?
How much of our self‑narrative is fact, and how much desperately needs some serious (but caring) fact‑checking? Case in point, my self-talk almost had me going to Megan’s wedding dressed up as a banquet table.
I have self-doubts. When I was younger, everything and anything seemed possible. As I get older, I am not sure about anymore. People say, “life is a bed of roses”. I’d like to point out that roses have thorns.
I don’t know what I want to do next. What fills my bucket? What’s fun? What’s the next adventure? Who do I want to be in this next chapter? I’ve been working on “shifting” but sometimes it feels more like sliding.
Which is why I am grateful to Eleanor. She challenged my narrative and held up a mirror. Sure, I can believe I am a bad pantsuit, but she suggested I think again. She saw in a fabulous dress. That’s the thing about friends. They are the hand we grab when we start to slide. Guardrails. Protection from self-deprecation.
Our people are the ones who ask, “Are you okay?”
Or say, “I’ve noticed…”
They see us more objectively — not inflated, not diminished. Just real. Capable. Worthy.
They ask hard questions.
They love us through messy chapters.
They remind us who we are when we forget.
Self‑reflection matters — but self‑loathing will take you to strange places where everyone wears polyester pantsuits. We need people who challenge us and remind us of our goodness.
And we need to say that part out loud.
Do we tell people often enough what they mean to us?
Are we generous with our compliments?
Do we reach out just to say, You matter. I see you. Thank you for being in my life.
Friendship isn’t a noun. It’s a verb. To lean in — consistently and with intention. Calls. Messages. Check‑ins with purpose. Not just emojis after something goes wrong.
Too often we wait until illness, loss, or regret forces the conversation. We can do this sooner.
Life comes in chapters — not all of them joyful. Some are heavy and quietly exhausting. And as we age, many of us think that we should handle it alone. That’s lonely.
Sea otters know better. They hold hands while sleeping in “rafts” so they don’t drift away in strong currents. It’s not cute — it’s survival.
We need more hand‑holding and more hugs and more connection.
We need to ask, “Are you okay?”
And be brave enough to say, “Actually, I’m not.”
We tend to celebrate out loud. We invite friends and family into our joy. There are hugs, raised glasses, shared laughter. Joy is public. Grief and hurt are often silent; tucked away and carried alone. Yet both need connection. Both need to be seen. As Brené Brown says, grief must be held to be healed. That feels true.
Relationships are quiet agreements not to let one another drift too far away. We are often unforgiving with ourselves. Friends become the soft place we land—the steady presence when we grow unstable, the hands that keep us tethered. They celebrate with us, yes, but they also sit with us when the story feels heavier. They remind us that we don’t have to keep wearing a version of ourselves that no longer fits.
Thank you, Eleanor, for reaching out. For gently shifting a narrative I had already settled into. For seeing something different when I couldn’t. Your kindness mattered more than you know.
Here’s to new narratives, new adventures and having the courage to see beyond what tries to hold us back.
With love,
Shelley
And Then I Jumped...... 