the weight of a wedding dress i'll never wear

my mother kept the magazine clippings

in a shoebox under her bed

princess sleeves and cathedral trains

flowing like water down chapel aisles

she'd pull them out on rainy afternoons

when i was seven, maybe eight

"someday," she'd whisper

tracing the beaded bodices

with her finger

"someday you'll be beautiful like this"

i would nod

and feel something heavy

settle in my chest

something that didn't have a name yet

but tasted like swallowing stones

when i was sixteen

she took me to the bridal shop

"just to look," she said

but her eyes were bright

with twenty years of dreaming

the saleswoman with painted nails

and a measuring tape around her neck

looked me up and down

like i was a mannequin

waiting to be dressed

"what's your dream dress, honey?"

i opened my mouth

and nothing came out

because how do you say

that your dream

is to never need one

that the very thought

of white lace and promises

makes you want to disappear

into the carpet

the dresses hung around us

like ghosts of futures

i would never choose

each one a small death

of who i was supposed to be

but wasn't

couldn't be

wouldn't be

my mother's hands

smoothed the satin

of a dress with pearl buttons

"try this one on"

and i did

because i loved her

and she had dreamed this moment

since before i was born

in the fitting room mirror

i looked like someone else

someone who existed

only in other people's expectations

the girl with the perfect smile

and the perfect boyfriend

and the perfect life

that felt like wearing

someone else's skin

i took a picture

because she asked

and sent it to my grandmother

who cried happy tears

over the phone

but i couldn't look at myself

couldn't see past

the costume

i was wearing

years later

when i finally found the words

to tell her who i really was

she pulled out those magazine clippings

one more time

and we sat together

on her bed

crying

for different reasons

she mourned the daughter

she thought she had

i mourned the years

i spent trying to be her

we held each other

in the space between

who we were

and who we thought we should be

"i'm sorry," she whispered

"i'm sorry i made you carry

dreams that weren't yours"

but the thing is

the weight doesn't just disappear

when you set it down

it leaves an impression

in your bones

a phantom ache

for the life you never lived

and never wanted

some nights i still dream

about that dress

hanging in a closet

waiting for someone

who will never come

and i wake up

grateful

that i learned to love

the sound of my own name

instead of the one

embroidered on

place cards

at a reception

i'll never have

because the heaviest thing

isn't the dress itself

it's the love

that comes wrapped

in conditions

and expectations

and the courage it takes

to unwrap yourself

from both

and stand naked

in your own truth

saying

this is who i am

this is who i've always been

even when it disappoints

the people who love you

most

the dress still hangs

in my mother's closet

she can't bring herself

to give it away

and i understand

because some dreams

are too beautiful

to let go

even when they're

killing you

slowly

quietly

with their weight

but i am lighter now

walking through the world

in clothes that fit

my soul

instead of

someone else's

vision

of who i should be

and maybe someday

she'll donate the dress

to someone who needs it

someone who dreams

of princess sleeves

and cathedral trains

someone who looks in mirrors

and sees herself

reflected back

whole

and beautiful

and ready

for the life

she's always wanted

but that someone

isn't me

and that's okay

because i am learning

that the most radical act

is not fitting

into anyone's dress

but walking naked

into your own

becoming