What I Learned from a Night That Almost Didn't Happen
Some nights don’t go as planned.
And some nights go so far off-plan that they break your zipper and your spirit — and then still manage to turn into something unforgettable.
This past Saturday, I had every intention of showing up to my friend’s ball looking put together. I’d ordered a few outfits. None arrived in time. No biggie — I had a backup dress in my closet. I cleaned the house that morning, got my hair curled, ran a few errands, took a “quick” nap because I’d been sick all week and was running on fumes... and woke up behind schedule and already emotional.
Still, I rallied.
I zipped up that backup dress, looked in the mirror, and actually said out loud:
“Hell yes. This works. Let’s fucking go.”
I didn’t even get a full minute of feeling that way before the zipper exploded.
While the dress was ON ME.
Gone. Ruined. Done.
And that’s when I broke.
I cried. Hard.
Not just because of the dress — but because of the exhaustion, the pressure, the lingering body image junk, the week of being sick, and the sinking feeling that I’d just wasted all that effort for nothing.
My husband didn’t say much. He just came up to me and wrapped me in a hug.
Held me while I let it out.
No fixing. Just quiet love.
He told me I didn’t have to go. But I wanted to.
So we pivoted. We met up with a few of his friends for margaritas — and here’s the thing: they had no idea what had just happened. But they made me laugh. Loud. They lightened everything without even trying. And I’m convinced they were part of the reason I even made it downtown.
I showed up to the ball in jeans, a white cropped tee, and my Blundstones. And even though I felt so underdressed, I texted my friends to let them know I was walking in — and the second I saw them, I started crying all over again.
I was embarrassed.
They looked stunning.
I was happy for them, but sad for me, but also grateful, and honestly just a big emotional mess.
They didn’t blink.
They wrapped me up in a hug like I was exactly where I was supposed to be.
And I think that’s when everything started to shift.
My husband? He doesn't love events like this. But he came with me anyway. Because he knew I wanted to be there. And that meant the world. It was one of those quiet, steady acts of love that speaks louder than any big romantic gesture.
By the end of the night, the DJ played “We Are Young” — and I danced like I meant it.
Like I wasn’t one of the oldest people on the dance floor (but I probably was).
Like the outfit didn’t matter.
Like none of it — the dress, the breakdown, the expectations — defined the night.
I shook my ass with the best of them.
And in that moment, I felt… free.
Here’s what I’m walking away with:
Sometimes the plan falls apart — and that’s when the good stuff shows up.
Friends and partners who love you exactly as you are? That’s the real luxury.
You can cry, be exhausted, wear the "wrong" thing, and still end the night dancing your heart out.
Just because Plan A failed, and Plan B fell apart on your body, doesn’t mean you don’t still belong at the party.
You are allowed to show up — even when you don’t feel ready.
You are allowed to take up space — even when it doesn’t look the way you pictured.
And the right people?
They’ll hold you, cheer for you, and order you your margarita.
So go.
Go in jeans. Go with tears still drying on your face. Go even when you feel like a mess.
Because joy doesn’t wait for perfection.
And sometimes, it finds you right in the middle of your plan C.