'My hen's night was supposed to be a celebration. I ended the night crying in an Uber.'

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You imagine your hen's night will be one of those stories, the kind you'll tell over drinks with friends for years — messy, sparkly, hilarious, full of bad dancing and even better memories.

I thought mine would be just that. A celebration of love, sisterhood, and this massive transition in my life, from woman to wife, and from mother to bride.

Instead?

I ended the night in an Uber. Alone. Mascara streaked. Chest tight. Wondering how the women who were supposed to love me most had just made me feel like an uninvited guest at my own party.

Apparently, becoming a mum and a bride makes people uncomfortable. My joy was too loud. My love, too confronting. And my needs? Too inconvenient.

Now, with just two months until my wedding, I'm stuck wondering: Should the women who emotionally abandoned and verbally abused me be standing beside me at the altar?

It started with love and ended in pain.

When the love of my life proposed, I was floating. Days later, I found out I was pregnant. It felt like the universe was affirming everything at once — love, life, and new beginnings.

I was excited to share this joy with the people closest to me. To celebrate this chapter. To feel held by the women I loved.

But the deeper I got into planning the wedding, the more I felt like something was... off.

Watch: Discussion about the challenges of wedding makeup that needs to look good in person while also photographing well. Post continues after video.

There were strange comments. Energy shifts. Passive aggression dressed up as "jokes". My joy was met with eye rolls, silence, or worse, subtle resentment.

I started to realise something painful. Maybe it wasn't about them being unable to be happy for me — maybe it was the pain they carried that made it impossible.

When someone is weighed down by their own hurt, your joy isn't a celebration — it's an insult. Still, I pushed on. I focused on my baby. My wedding. My future.

Until my hen's night.

I was a new mum. My hormones had just started to settle, and I was starting to feel like myself again. I had finished breastfeeding, my body was finally mine, and this night — this one night — felt like a chance to just be me.

My hen's weekend was a surprise, planned by my bridal party. I was excited. Nervous. Hopeful.

The day started off well. Lunch, karaoke, and a few drinks. I didn't drink much — being a new mum changes you — and that was the first mark against me. Apparently, I wasn't "fun" anymore. I wasn't letting loose enough. I wasn't playing the role of the drunk, carefree bride. I wasn't giving them the version of me they expected.

As the day progressed, my anxiety crept in. It was my first night away from my baby. I didn't know where we were staying, what the plan was, or what came next. I felt unsettled.

I turned to my sisters, who are both mums themselves, hoping they'd get it. Instead, they told me to "get over it".

Not, "We've got you". Not, "It's okay to feel this way". Just… get over it. My chest sank.

Later that night, as my anxiety increased, I tried to steady myself. I stepped away to call my fiancé for some emotional safety. I was met with eye rolls and mocking glances. I was "selfish". I was "killing the vibe".

"It's not all about you," someone snapped.

But wasn't it supposed to be?

That's when the unravelling truly began.

My maid of honour had gone from tipsy to toxic. She was loud, slurring, and aggressive. Making jokes at other people's expense. Pushing me aside physically. Stealing seats. Hijacking conversations. It was like I didn't exist — until I tried to share how I was feeling, and then I was too much. Still, I tried to breathe through it. I didn't want to ruin anything. I didn't want to be "that bride".

But the moment I expressed even a fraction of vulnerability — that I was anxious, overwhelmed, and missed my baby — they pounced. I was called crazy. Unstable. Dramatic. Told I should be on medication. Told I needed help. And not by strangers, but by the people who were supposed to love me.

Back at the apartment, I thought maybe — maybe — everything would calm down. Instead, they sat me down like an intervention. Cold. Robotic. Detached.

They took turns listing all the ways I had ruined the night. I was ungrateful. Self-centered. A burden. They had spent time, money, and energy on me, and I had the audacity to not smile enough. To not perform for them.

I tried to explain. I tried to own my feelings. I offered to cover the accommodation costs; I apologised for changing the plans. I just needed peace. I got none.

That's when it turned violent.

My maid of honour followed me into the bedroom. She shut the door behind her. Blocked it.

She shoved me onto the bed. Climbed on top of me. Pinned me down. Through her laughter, she said that my baby didn't love me. That no one liked me. That I was hated. That I wasn't even wanted.

I begged her to stop. I begged her to get off me.

When I finally escaped, I ran into the lounge room sobbing — desperate, broken.

My sisters just sat there. No, "Are you okay?" No hug. No humanity.

Then my maid of honour walked out behind me — now crying. They asked her if she was okay. I was invisible.

That night broke something deep inside me. A wound I don't know how to stitch up.

But I know one thing: Some people don't want to celebrate your joy. They want to be the reason for it. And if they can't be, they'll do whatever it takes to take it away from you.

Some people are only there for the version of you that makes them feel good. The moment you need something real — support, empathy, space — they disappear.

And some people are just waiting for an opportunity to bring you down. And what better opportunity than your moment in the spotlight?

I used to think weddings revealed love.

Now I think they reveal the truth.

And sometimes, the truth is brutal.

The author of this story is known to Mamamia but remained anonymous for privacy purposes.

Feature image: Getty.