That Scandalous Red Carpet Dress Changed How I Think About Getting Dressed

I was sprawled on my couch last Tuesday night, probably three glasses deep into a bottle of sauvignon blanc I’d opened “just for one glass with dinner,” half-watching some red carpet coverage when everything went absolutely bonkers. The commentators started practically shrieking, my phone exploded with notifications, and I nearly launched my wine across my living room trying to sit up fast enough to see what was happening.

You know that moment when something happens that’s so shocking your brain takes a second to process it? That was me watching Alana Rivera’s Met Gala entrance. The dress—if you can even call it a dress—looked like it was held together by hope, physics, and maybe some very strategically placed tape. I’m pretty sure I said “holy shit” out loud to my empty apartment, which my cat judged me for.

Within minutes, my group chat with my fashion friends was absolutely losing it. Sarah sent like fifteen crying-laughing emojis. Emma wrote “I CANNOT” in all caps. My friend Kate, who works at Vogue, just sent a GIF of someone’s jaw dropping. The internet was having a complete meltdown—half the people calling it vulgar and inappropriate, the other half declaring it genius commentary on American culture or whatever.

Honestly? I couldn’t look away. Not just because of the dress itself, but because of how Rivera wore it. She wasn’t tugging at it or checking if things were staying in place. She wasn’t doing that thing where you can tell someone feels exposed and uncomfortable. She walked that red carpet like she was wearing the most normal outfit in the world, making direct eye contact with photographers, completely owning every single second of it.

My grandmother always used to say that confidence was the best accessory you could wear, though she was usually talking about her decision to wear orthopedic shoes with everything after she turned seventy. But watching Rivera that night, I finally got what she meant. The dress was controversial, sure, but it was the attitude that made it iconic.

I’ve been thinking about that moment for months now, and it’s completely changed how I approach getting dressed. Not because I want to show up places half-naked—I mean, I live in Chicago and work in an office, so there are practical considerations—but because it made me realize how much time I spend dressing for other people’s comfort instead of my own.

Like, I’ll see a gorgeous dress and immediately start the mental gymnastics. “Oh, but my arms look weird from this angle” or “I can’t wear that, what if I run into my boss” or “this is too young for me” or whatever other excuse I’ve trained my brain to come up with. It’s exhausting, and more importantly, it’s boring.

So I decided to channel what I’m calling “Rivera Energy” into my summer wardrobe. Not the literal nudity—again, I have a day job and health insurance I’d like to keep—but that level of complete ownership over my choices.

The first thing I bought was this white linen dress that’s so thin you can basically see my entire silhouette when the sun hits it right. The old me would’ve bought it, tried it on at home, panicked about its transparency, and returned it the next day. Instead, I wore it to brunch in Wicker Park last weekend and felt amazing. Three different women asked where I got it. Nobody mentioned that they could see the outline of my bra, which I’d been weirdly paranoid about all morning.

Then I found this jumpsuit with cutouts that show probably more skin than I’ve shown since my early twenties. When I tried it on at home, Emma said it was “very Fashion Week energy” which I think was her polite way of saying “you sure about this?” But I wore it to pick up groceries last week and the girl at Whole Foods complimented it. Turns out most people aren’t actually scrutinizing your outfit choices as much as your anxiety tells you they are.

The real test came when I bought this electric blue halter top that requires some serious engineering or, let’s be honest, just going without certain undergarments entirely. It’s backless, it’s bright, and it definitely falls into the category of clothes that would make my mother ask if I’m “going through something.” I wore it to a rooftop party in Logan Square last Saturday, fully prepared for weird looks or comments.

Instead, something interesting happened. When you wear something potentially controversial with complete confidence, people respond to the energy more than the actual clothes. Nobody made awkward comments about the backless situation. This editor I’d been trying to pitch for months actually came up and started talking to me about freelance opportunities, seemingly unbothered by the fact that my entire spine was exposed to the Chicago summer air.

The only direct comment came from my photographer friend Marcus, who just said “that blue is incredible on you” before launching into a story about some chaotic wedding he’d shot the weekend before. That was it. No pearl-clutching, no concerned questions about my fashion choices, just normal human interaction.

I’m not saying everyone needs to start dressing like they’re headed to the Met Gala—that would be weird and also probably impractical for most people’s lives. But I do think a lot of us, myself definitely included, spend way too much mental energy following arbitrary fashion rules that nobody actually enforces.

Rivera’s dress worked because it was authentic to who she is. She didn’t look like she was wearing a costume or trying to be someone else for attention. That’s what I’m stealing from that whole controversy—not the specific look, but the attitude of wearing exactly what makes you feel like the main character in your own life.

I’ve started asking myself different questions when I get dressed each morning. Instead of “what will people think of this?” I ask “would I wear this if nobody else’s opinion mattered?” Sometimes that leads me to the transparent dress or the backless top. Other times it’s my most comfortable jeans and a vintage t-shirt from some concert I went to in college. Both answers are totally valid as long as they’re honest.

The reactions have been… mixed, I guess. My mom definitely raised an eyebrow when I showed up to family dinner in the cutout jumpsuit, though she didn’t say anything directly. My upstairs neighbor asked if I had a new boyfriend when she saw me leaving in one of my more revealing outfits, like that was the only possible explanation for a wardrobe change. My old college professor ran into me at the farmer’s market while I was wearing the white dress and did this obvious double-take before awkwardly saying I looked “very summery.”

But you know what? The most important reaction has been my own. There’s something genuinely powerful about wearing exactly what you want to wear. It’s affected more than just my clothes—I’ve been more direct in work meetings, sent pitches to publications that used to intimidate me, even approached dating with more clarity about what I actually want instead of what I think I should want.

Maybe that sounds dramatic, like I’m attributing too much power to some backless tops and see-through dresses. But fashion has never been just about clothes, right? It’s about how we present ourselves to the world, how we take up space, how we signal to ourselves and everyone else who we are or who we want to be.

Rivera understood that when she chose that controversial dress. The outfit was a statement, but more than that, it was a demonstration of complete self-possession. She knew people would have opinions—probably strong ones—and she wore it anyway because it felt authentic to her vision of herself.

I’m not planning to recreate that exact look anytime soon—my office has a pretty standard dress code and I’d like to keep my job—but I am carrying a piece of that red carpet confidence with me. Along with some fashion tape and maybe a safety pin or two, because while confidence is essential, wardrobe malfunctions on the CTA are still very much a concern.

The thing is, most of the fashion rules we follow aren’t actually rules at all. They’re just suggestions we’ve internalized, often without questioning whether they serve us or make us happy. This summer, I’m questioning more of them. Not to be controversial for the sake of it, but to figure out what actually feels like me versus what I think I should wear to make other people comfortable.

It’s been weirdly liberating, honestly. Yesterday I wore a crop top to the grocery store—just Target, nothing fancy, but still showing more midriff than I have in probably five years. The cashier complimented my earrings. A mom with two kids smiled at me while we were both reaching for the same brand of pasta sauce. Nobody seemed scandalized by my exposed stomach. Life went on, except I felt a little more like myself.

I guess what I’m saying is that sometimes it takes watching someone else completely own their choices to realize you’ve been playing it safe in ways that don’t actually benefit you. Rivera’s dress was shocking because it was so unapologetically exactly what she wanted to wear. There’s something to be said for that level of commitment to your own vision, even when—especially when—you know not everyone’s going to get it.

So while I probably won’t be causing any red carpet controversies anytime soon, I will be wearing what makes me feel good without constantly second-guessing whether it’s appropriate or age-appropriate or whatever other arbitrary standard I’ve been using to police my own closet. Because honestly, life’s too short and Chicago summers are too hot to spend them worried about other people’s opinions of your outfit choices.