Breaking Point in a Black Tie Dress: My Story of Survival and Healing

'I’m writing this now as a tribute to that brave woman in the black-tie dress. I love her for what she did that night'

Do you ever feel like you’re only succeeding when you’re barely keeping your head above water—but failing if you don’t have the energy to keep up the act? Any crack in the facade, and you’re sure people will see how awful you really are. You think so little of yourself that it must be true, right? After all, it had to come from somewhere. Maybe you've been told you're not good enough or made to feel that way so deeply you loathe yourself. Every day becomes a new tick in the “keep up appearances” box.

This picture was taken just over six years ago. It got a lot of attention (all positive) and helped me tick that external validation box, giving me enough “supply” to keep my head above water for a few hours. The night this picture was taken was also one of the worst nights of my life.

For context, I've been through what most would call some pretty traumatic events over my 43 years. & while nothing outwardly horrible happened that night, I can now say that my suffering reached its absolute peak that evening. But hey at least I can look back at this torturous milestone and say, “I looked bloody gorgeous!”

It was a black-tie dinner in my town, and I attended with my then-husband and a few other couples we knew. There was a big buildup to the event—something I’m familiar with, working in the beauty industry. I had a dress custom-designed, my hair done, and I’d applied my own makeup along with the makeup for a few other women in the group.

Looking back now, I realise I was putting on my full armour that night, probably for the last time. I was preparing to enter the social battlefield, without realising how fragile that armour really was. I had always taken full responsibility for how we looked as a couple, a family and a unit, shouldering accountability for everyone’s behaviour, pre-empting situations, and taking every step possible to protect mine and my families image. Anything else felt like a personal failure.

I hadn’t been drunk (no more than two drinks) in nearly 10 years at that point. After all, no one going into “battle” can afford to get drunk, right? I had to be on my best social game, fully in control.

When I was finally ready, I had that usual moment of “ooh” satisfaction—relief that I was armoured and prepared for the night ahead. But instead of the usual relief and accomplishment, a wave of excruciating mental pain hit me. I felt detached, like I wasn’t even in my own body. Looking around at everyone dressed up, smiling, laughing, taking selfies, I felt my armour disintegrating, and I was terrified by this new vulnerable exposure.

I lost my game face. I felt sick, and shame washed over me. As I was asked to pose for a photo, I felt intense embarrassment and shame and wished, at that moment, for my body to fail—just as my armour had—so I wouldn’t have to be there anymore. And by “there,” I mean not on this earth.

The night was long, arduous, excruciating. I remember watching a clip of Katy Perry having to perform onstage right after Russell Brand broke up with her, and I’d never resonated so deeply with someone’s pain before.

God, if I could go back to that 37-year-old woman, I’d hug her. I’d tell her it’s okay to fall apart, that she doesn’t have to do this anymore. She doesn’t have to suffer like that. I’d tell her, “Anna, you don’t have to put up with situations, friendships, or behaviour that hurt you. You don’t have to ‘game face’ anymore, and you certainly don’t have to cover for anyone else. You’re not going to get a medal for this, and you’re not going to get thanks. But you do need to heal.”

That night was the longest of my life. Time felt like cement moving through an hourglass, and I didn’t even get to go to bed. The usual events of a night like that played out as they always did—negative drunk behaviour, toxicity, jealousy, resentment rearing their heads. And as always, I stayed up all night, waiting for the calm, waiting for dawn, waiting for safety in my mind.

The next morning, as I threw in the towel on my then life, I felt like a failure. I felt like a failure telling my friends, like a fraud for lying to myself and everyone else about my happiness for so long. It felt like I was losing everything: my family, my friends, my social circle, and the carefully protected image I’d built. I felt like I was declaring bankruptcy on my life, convinced that I was weak and disgusting. I thought that if I’d only been stronger, I could have coped with this role I’d created for myself.

Looking back at the photos from that night, I wonder if it was just me. Was anyone else in pain? Were they “game-facing” their own struggles? Conforming to expectations? What hidden battles were the others fighting?

I wasn’t exactly supported in the years that followed, which only added to my guilt and intense shame. But I’m writing this now as a tribute to that brave woman in the black-tie dress. I love her for what she did that night, facing down her pain and taking herself onto the path that would eventually lead her here.