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It’s 2005. I’m eight years old, sitting at my desk and swinging my legs back and forth—the tips of my light up sneakers bumping the seat in front of me, then falling back to scuff against the metal legs of my desk. It’s class time, and I am terribly bored. My eyes drift toward the window as I slip into my favorite daydream, my trusty headspace that can make a social studies or math class fly by in an instant.
It always starts with the aisle walk—my puffy dress trailing behind me in all its bedazzled glory, stretching as far as the eye can see. My veil blurs my vision, a sea of faces lost behind the white mesh. I walk up a few steps, my gloved hand handed off to a suitor whose face I do not yet know, and I feel a rush of contentedness. The officiant wears long white robes and speaks incoherently, until his voice echoes crystal clear: You may kiss the bride.
I was dreaming of my wedding day, as many little girls do. But instead of just dreaming it, I was building it. Each year it became more vivid. I imagined what flavors of cake we’ll cut, how my hair would fall over my shoulder as I threw my bouquet back, and how I would twirl and dance—passed from my father’s arms into the grasp of my beloved, whoever he might be.
All the while, I traveled through life. I had boyfriends whose faces I cut and pasted onto the groom in my head, but somehow the edges never lined up quite right—there were always gaps in the puzzle piece. I’d crumble the paper and start again with someone new, still wondering if reality could ever live up to what I so desperately desired.
Sometimes, dreams really do come true.
On September 14th, 2025, I had the pleasure of experiencing a moment I felt I had already lived hundreds of times—in classrooms, on buses with my headphones on, in quiet moments when I imagined the future. But this time, it was real. It was the culmination of years spent together, of love blossoming from an online friendship, to a relationship, to a marriage.
I feel so lucky to say that my wedding day was everything I had wanted and more. Every aspect was perfect, thanks to my mother’s eye for detail and meticulous planning. I lived the day in slow motion, savoring it from the moment my eyes opened.
I remember looking at myself in the mirror as my hair and makeup artist packed up her things, the sound of brushes rattling and palettes closing. I looked at myself and saw a smiling bride looking back.
When you imagine a groom—when you build him up from every movie you’ve seen and every crush you’ve had—you start to think it’s impossible for anyone to match. I was nervous for a brief moment, waiting in the chapel for my cue to walk out for our first look before the ceremony. But when I tapped Guillaume on the shoulder and he turned around, a flood of comfort hit me. My nerves dissolved into sugar.
It was just him. Just Guillaume. My safe place.
We have been together for five years, and through that time I’ve loved him in so many ways. First as a friend and confidant, then as a boyfriend I desperately wanted to impress, and then as a fiancé with whom I could see the road of our future stretched out ahead.
Standing there at the altar, I realized I had loved Guillaume much longer than I had even known him. I had loved the idea of him—the faceless, nameless groom who would one day take my hand and lead me into a life of happiness. In high school, I’d sit in chemistry class, doodling in the margins of my notebook, wondering, I wonder what my future husband is doing right now? I hope he’s having a good day.
Before I had even known him, I had loved and wished good things for him. I said these things quietly, in the safety of my mind—like we could transfer messages telepathically, and somehow he would know I was thinking of him.
I had loved him since that first day I sat in school, glanced out the window, and wondered, What would it be like to get married someday?
Just as I’d pictured a thousand times before, I closed the distance for a kiss, and my lifelong dream became my reality.
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