You know that feeling? When everyone expects you to be a certain way, look a certain way? Like, it’s not even a request, it’s just… assumed. My cousin’s wedding. Traditional. Big deal. The whole family from *back home* is watching, even if they’re on Zoom, aiyo. They picked the dress. Of course they did. Fitted. Satin. My shoulders are broad, okay? I’m tall for a woman. It’s just how I am. But in that dress, I felt like a linebacker wrapped in a shiny ribbon. A gift for everyone to judge. Sitting there, front row, during the ceremony. Everyone turns to watch the bride, beautiful, tiny, floating. And then they turn back. Their eyes— you *feel* them, right? Not looking *at* me, but *through* me, sizing me up. “Too much,” their stares said. “Too big for a bridesmaid.” My auntie whispered something to my mom, quick, hushed. Probably about how I should have worn a shawl. Or lost weight. Or both. My face got hot. I could barely breathe, the dress was so tight, I swear. Like it was actively trying to constrict me. Like the fabric itself was gossiping. It’s always this. The pressure. Be a good daughter, a good cousin, smile, don’t cause trouble. But also, be… less. Less opinionated. Less visible. Less *me*. My English is perfect, sometimes I forget a word in the mother tongue, then my grandma gives me that look. And now this. My body, on display, being critiqued. Like I chose to be this height. Like I chose to have these shoulders. My chest felt so tight, like someone put a brick on it. During the reception, I just kept my head down. Ate quick. Tried to disappear into the crowd of bright colours and loud music. I wanted to rip that dress off. Just stand there in my slip. Or nothing. To just be. Not a display. Not a comparison. Not a disappointment. But you can’t, can you? You just have to smile. And pretend. And wish you were anywhere else. Anywhere they don’t see you like this. Is it wrong to hate your own wedding clothes? Even when it’s not your wedding? Like, I just want to be me. But “me” is always too much. Too much of this, not enough of that. Too American, not enough… whatever they want me to be. What do they want? Seriously. What’s the right answer? No one tells you that. They just tell you when you’re wrong. Always. I’m home now. The dress is in a pile on the floor. I haven’t even looked at it. I keep seeing their faces. Their whispers. My mom’s worried sigh. Is it really that bad? To be a strong woman? To take up space? Or is it just bad when *I* do it? I don’t know. I’m just tired. So tired of trying to shrink.