Imagine a wedding where the most important detail wasn’t the flowers or the venue, but the steady rhythm of a heart monitor. This is our story. At 24, my husband Calder and I traded a traditional ceremony for a hospital room, and in doing so, we discovered a version of love more profound than any fairy tale. This is not a sad story, though it has sadness in it. It is a story about how crisis can distill life down to its purest, most beautiful essence: the choice to be fully present with the person you love.
The pivot from “someday” to “today” happened in a doctor’s office. Faced with a prognosis that was unclear but undoubtedly grim, Calder and I were thrust into a new reality. Planning for a future felt like building on sand. So, we stopped planning and started being. We made a pact to stop waiting for life to happen and to grasp it firmly in the now. This mindset shift was our first act of rebellion against fear. It meant that our engagement lasted only as long as it took to get a marriage license and gather two witnesses.
In that sterile environment, we created our own symbols of devotion. When Calder lost his hair to chemotherapy, I chose to lose mine, too. It was an act of solidarity that transformed my own understanding of beauty. Beauty became strength. It became vulnerability. It became the look in his eyes when he saw me, a look that said, “You are my home.” Our wedding attire was simple, our décor was heartfelt and makeshift, and our ceremony was brief. Yet, every element was saturated with an intention that grand ballrooms often lack.
The ceremony itself was a powerful cocktail of emotions. We wept for the life we thought we’d have, and we laughed with sheer joy for the profound connection we got to celebrate. We held hands, not just in affection, but as a literal anchor to the moment. The vows we spoke were not standard script; they were specific promises forged in the fire of our circumstances—promises of presence, of honesty in fear, and of finding joy in the smallest moments. It was, in every sense, real.
Today, I carry that lesson of presence forward. Calder’s illness taught us that “happily ever after” isn’t a length of time; it’s a depth of feeling. It’s the quality of the moments you share, however many you get. Our wedding was beautiful not in spite of its setting, but because of it. It cut through all the noise and pageantry to show us the quiet, magnificent core of marriage: two people, choosing each other, with clear eyes and full hearts, exactly where they are.
