Power in Pink
Power in Pink
“Perfection’s a cage—strap into what makes you feel fearless and tear the night wide open.”
I came to photograph a wedding, not star in it. That was the deal. Me behind the camera, blending in like a shadow, snapping moments of other people’s perfection. Weddings are safe like that—you’re invisible, but you’re in the middle of the magic. But plans? Fragile little things.
“Jess!” Emily—my bride, my client, my don’t-mess-this-up priority—came barreling into the bridal suite, veil flying like a white flag in a war zone. She was clutching her phone like it had given her a death sentence. “Madison’s stuck in Tahoe. Snowstorm. We need a bridesmaid. Now.”
I blinked. “Emily, I’m in jeans and combat boots.”
“Not for long.” She shoved a blush satin dress into my arms like it was a lifeline. That’s when I saw it. The shapewear. Rose-gold, sleek, humming confidence from a chair like it had been waiting for me.
Truth? My first instinct was to rebel. Toss it aside. Shout, Down with body prisons! But then Emily—makeup half-done, voice cracking—said, “It’s not about hiding. It’s like a superhero suit. Not to erase you. To hold you while you take over.”
And damn… that hit different.
So I slipped it on. And wow. Forget suffocating spandex nightmares. This felt like armor. Like the whisper of a secret that said, You’re stronger than you think. My reflection grinned back at me, messy curls and all. For the first time that day, I wasn’t thinking about angles or lighting—I was thinking, Yeah, I can do this.
By the time the ceremony started, I wasn’t the ghost behind the lens anymore. I was in the lineup. Satin hugging curves like it meant business, camera still slung around my neck because old habits die hard. The San Francisco skyline stretched out behind us—fog curling like cigarette smoke, lights winking mischief. And me? Barefoot, because the heels were a death trap, shapewear hugging me like a battle cry.
Then the music dropped—the kind of beat that doesn’t ask permission—and the night cracked open. The first spin, the first whoop, the first time I let go of the script I’d been clinging to my whole life. Emily kicked off her own heels and joined me, veil whipping like a rebel flag. The DJ shouted, “Let’s go!” and suddenly, we weren’t bridesmaid and bride—we were two women who’d decided rules were suggestions.
Someone gasped, “You’re wrinkling the dress!”
I yelled back, “Good! Dresses are for living, not preserving!”
By midnight, mascara was racing down my cheeks, lipstick had packed up and left, and I was drenched in champagne like a victory lap. The photos? They weren’t staged. They were alive—skirt hems flying, hair like wild flames, Emily laughing so hard she almost dropped her bouquet. And me? I wasn’t outside the story anymore. I was in it, sweaty and smiling and exactly where I was supposed to be.
That night, I learned something. Shapewear isn’t the enemy. Rules are. And sometimes breaking them starts with slipping into something that says, You’re unstoppable.
