In 2023, The Knot reported that the average bridal party had four bridesmaids. Today that number is ballooning, with Chiefs’ heiress Gracie Hunt boasting of having 14. Ruhama Wolle — author of new book I Hope You Elope — says it’s time for insane bridesmaid culture to end.
In 2022, I walked straight into one of the most convincing scams of modern womanhood: being a bridesmaid.
People rarely call it what it is. They dress it up as an honor, a celebration, a sisterhood.
But somewhere between the mood board and the Venmo requests it morphs into something else entirely—a role you never applied for and a job you’ll never be paid for.
I’m not here to torch the wedding industrial complex (though singeing the edges feels appropriate). I’m here to pull back the veil—pun deeply intended—and say, with love: This s–t is nowhere near as fun as we’ve been pretending.
They ask, “Will you do me the honor?” What they’re really saying is: “Will you put yourself aside for me?”
It’s all about the money
Post-pandemic was what I now call my “first wave” of weddings. That stretch in your late twenties when the engagements start rolling in, one after another, until your weekends are booked, your money’s gone before it hits your account, and your group chats all have names like “Bride & Boujee” or “Miami Mamas.”
For me, the wave hit in 2022. The proposals had come during the pandemic—three of them, to be exact—but the weddings started rolling in that year. Three brides-to-be.
Then came the bridesmaid asks. Two were my best friends; they called, which felt official enough. The third was family, so it just . . . unfolded.
I got a text asking for my headshot for the wedding website, and a few weeks later, I was added to the bridal party group chat.
I said yes to all three without hesitation, without a budget, or the faintest idea of what I was signing up for.
At first, I let myself roll with it by calling it intel gathering. But I already knew something might go sideways.
I was under water with work. I had also moved to New York and was living alone for the first time: paying bills, settling into a new apartment, adjusting to a new job.
Everything, from toothpaste to therapy, cost more than it should.
All of this, and three weddings as a bridesmaid in less than eighteen months — that cost me precisely $4,634.50.
And that was after I’d skipped two bridal showers and two bachelorettes. If I’d said yes to everything? That number would’ve doubled.
The dress disasters
I’ve worn six different bridesmaid dresses across three weddings—and if I’m being honest, there were moments I felt beautiful. And moments I felt like I was being publicly pranked.
Take the first wedding. I didn’t end up attending because of a family funeral, but the dress is still hanging in my closet with the tag on, waiting to be sold on Poshmark like a breakup I haven’t processed.
Champagne charmeuse. Flutter sleeves. Technically adult, but on me—four foot eleven, round baby face—it gave “flower girl goes formal.”
I didn’t love it, but the maid of honor (her sister) and another bridesmaid (her other sister) wanted flutter sleeves to cover their arms.
Because they were like family, I didn’t push back. Sometimes it’s easier to fold than to be the one who complicates things.
The second wedding was better. The bride’s only requirement was that our dresses be sage green and below the knee—but not floor-length.
By pure luck, I already had a satin slip dress that matched. It felt like a small reward from the universe for everything else I was juggling at the time.
But here’s where it got weird: All the other bridesmaids—except me and my sister—bought the exact same dress. They were all close friends, and we were the only family in the mix.
No one said anything out loud, but once we realized it, I felt a tiny tug in my gut. Was I supposed to match them? Did I miss something? I hadn’t broken a rule, but I hadn’t been looped in, either.
And then there was the third wedding. This one felt collaborative at first—even though we ended up in the same dress, same color, same cut. We’d tried them on together in the store, months ahead of time.
But then, out of nowhere, the maid of honor sent a group text a few months before the wedding: “Hey! It’s time to order—just a heads-up, the style and color have been tweaked slightly.”
“Slightly” turned out to mean a full shift. What we’d chosen together— a U-shape scoop in a warm burnt orange—became a high neckline in cinnamon brown. I looked like a kid in a Sunday dress. I hated it. I found out later they made a replica for the junior bridesmaids.
We were never told why the dress changed—not in the chat, not when it arrived looking nothing like the bride expected. By then, it was too late to reorder.
Traditional weddings come with a completely different kind of dress chaos.
If you’re African — I was born in Ethiopia — you already know the drill: That dress is getting made back home.
Someone’s auntie, cousin, or cousin’s friend is coordinating the whole thing via WhatsApp, and you’re sending your measurements across the ocean with nothing but hope, vibes, and maybe a screenshot of your favorite influencer’s version.
For my cousin’s wedding, she picked what I can only describe as the Instagram designer. The guy all the Ethiopian influencers wear — with the price tag to match.
At the time, it cost us 30,000 birr, which was around $540 if you went by the bank rate. That’s a lot. Especially for one of two dresses we had to wear.
When the dress arrived and we each tried on our own I realized mine was giant. You could fit two of me in that thing. Maybe three.
My tailor looked at me, then at the dress, and blinked. “We’re going to have to rebuild it,” he said. Reconstruction cost me an extra $100.
When you’re financially responsible for yourself, with no safety net, every yes has a price tag—one you can feel in real time.
Bonkers bachelorettes
Weddings don’t care about your financial standing. They demand full participation.
The bachelorette trip, dress, gifts, hair, makeup, and travel all start piling up, and the assumption is that everyone can swing it, equally.
Case in point: my cousin’s Miami bachelorette—the only destination trip I could afford that year.
The plan seemed manageable: boat day, dinners, maybe a night out.
Then, a few weeks before, one of her childhood best friends casually dropped into the chat: “Magic Mike Live is in Miami. We HAVE to go.”
So I Venmo my $150—bride’s ticket included, of course—and brace twice.
When we pulled into the stadium parking lot . . . it was empty. Apocalyptically empty.
One lonely pickup truck sat dead center, its driver leaning against it like he’d already lived three lifetimes of disappointment.
We rolled down the window for directions. Without even looking up, he said, “Yeah, the stadium’s closed.” That’s when I lost it.
I was in the very back seat, tears streaming, trying to muffle the kind of laugh that makes your diaphragm cramp.
My sister elbowed me, whisper-yelling, “Ru, you’re being rude,” while also shaking from trying not to laugh herself. But I couldn’t stop.
Because deep down, I already knew what this meant: There was no Magic Mike.
The girls reread the digital tickets like they were decoding an ancient text. Someone did a frantic Google search. And there it was— the truth that broke us: Magic Mike Live had ended its Miami run days before.
The only shows left were in Vegas. We had paid for a show that did not exist.
Eventually, we pivoted and found an impromptu drag show that ended up being iconic. But the $150? Gone. Forever.
The bridesmaid who purchased the tickets tried her bank. They said no. Ticketmaster ghosted. The scammer collected his blessing.
I can laugh now, but in the moment it felt like the perfect metaphor for modern bachelorette culture: expensive, chaotic, and just unhinged enough to make you say, “You literally can’t make this up.”
Just say no
The bridesmaid’s role? It’s framed as a choice, but it runs on obligation.
Opting out, even a little, gets read as disloyal.
Maybe this is the immigrant in me talking, but the ease with which people here in the States ask their friends to spend thousands—with no pause, no plan, no real conversation—is wild.
We treat it as if it’s normal. It’s not. It’s unhinged.
We’ve taken something financially draining, emotionally complex, and logistically exhausting and sold it back to women.
What began as a gesture of friendship has expanded into a logistical marathon, a branded campaign.
Now it’s a cross-country commitment, a content strategy, a test of endurance.
We’re not doing that anymore. And to the brides — I hope you elope.
Signed,
A bridesmaid who’s seen some things.
“I Hope You Elope: A Bridesmaid Survival Guide” by Ruhama Wolle is available to purchase on Amazon, Barnes & Noble, Target, Walmart and more.
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