2024-07-20 09:10:02
I was never the little girl who dreamed about her wedding day. I fantasized about moving to New York and building a career in TV, and I always kept my eye on the prize. That’s not to say I didn’t also dream of finding my husband and raising a family together, but I was confident that time would come when it was meant to be.
He came into my life on a summer night in July 2022. Six feet of kindness, laughter and immediate connection. A person with faith who placed importance on family, shared my love of travel, and answered my random opener — “Are you a happy person?” — with a resounding yes.
Our first trip together was to Italy, with his parents and a handful of our friends. We were still getting to know each other, and it was a four-day crash course in who he was around those he cared about. On our way home my friend said, “You’re going to marry that man.” I blushed, as though the thought was ridiculous, but I knew it was true.
In April 2023, following a proposal of epic proportions, I agreed to marry the only person I’ve ever truly loved. As we thought about the wedding, I dreamed our day would be full of our favorite things: great food, music and most importantly, our closest family and friends. It would be the kickoff to what was sure to be a full and loving life together.
When it came to location, nothing jumped out at us. Atlanta, where he grew up? He preferred not. My hometown in Massachusetts? I didn’t think so. New York City, where we both live? Narrowing the guest list would feel impossible.
We decided on a return to Italy for the wedding. Over the following year, as we locked in the venue, vendors and guest list, the excitement was tangible.
But life has a funny way of keeping you on your toes. As June 2, 2024, approached, it became imminently clear that marriage was no longer an option, and the decision was made to call off our wedding.
We ended our relationship for reasons that only he and I know — I won’t get into them here, and honestly that’s not the point of me sharing my story. What I will say is that I’ve never experienced that kind of heartbreak before; it’s been a cruel and undying kind of pain. The kind that left me certain I could never step foot in Italy, where we had made so many memories, ever again.
But as phone calls of the news went out, and texts and voicemails rolled in, I learned that dozens of family members and friends would be boarding flights and showing up — whether I wanted them to or not.
I had already canceled my flight, but after a weekend of relentless encouragement from lifelong friends, I agreed to book another — with plans to gather for what would now be a celebration of a different kind of love.
They say life is 10% what happens to you and 90% how you respond to it, and that’s a motto I’ve always embraced — this was no time to stop. Landing at the airport in Milan brought run-ins with loved ones on both sides, and with that, unavoidable waves of emotion. The grief was even more relentless when I arrived at the hotel, alone. I retreated to my room, but I couldn’t sleep. How hadn’t I seen this coming? If I had, maybe my family and friends wouldn’t have suffered this financial burden, and I wouldn’t have been left heartbroken.
But the next day, as loved ones from around the world arrived, the intrusive thoughts settled, and I began to feel the love. The army had assembled.
The once highly-anticipated, now somewhat dreaded day of what was supposed to be my wedding came — rain in tow — but I told myself it was simply a matter of reframing. It was a new day, in a beautiful place, surrounded by beautiful people, and I needed to be grateful for that gift. I put on a red gown in lieu of the wedding dress I was supposed to wear. The rain cleared, the sky brightened, and just like that, I was in a setting out of a fairy-tale, in a room so full of love, it was hard to feel anything else. Sure, the person I once dreamed would be standing next to me was notably absent, but in a room like that, you focus on what you have, not what you don’t.
