They don’t tell you this part when you’re pinning wedding dresses or looking at table settings.
Nobody warns you how weird it feels to plan a wedding when your family tree is basically a burnt-down telephone pole with a couple of branches still smoldering.
Nobody prepares you for the fact that every decision…who walks you down the aisle, who gets an invite, who you don’t want in the room…feels like opening old wounds you thought had scarred over.
I’m living it right now. And let me tell you, it’s brutal.
When I was little, I thought weddings were where everyone came together. You know, like in the movies. Families unite, everyone hugs, there’s cake, and some embarrassing uncle gets drunk and does the Macarena.
In reality?
My mom won’t be there because she died in 2017. And no matter how many centerpieces I plan or vows I write, nothing fills that void. She should be here. She was supposed to see me get to this chapter…the one where I’m not wrecking myself with booze and bad decisions. The one where I’ve finally found peace and a partner who loves me as I am.
My dad? No. He’s not invited. We don’t speak. He stopped being my father a long time ago.
And my sister? She’s gone, too. But not in the way you think. She’s alive, but she’s missing from my life by choice. She’s made it clear she wants nothing to do with me. I don’t even know where she lives anymore. She doesn’t return calls. She’s erased me.
Try making a guest list with all that rattling around in your head.
I thought I was just planning a wedding.
Turns out, I’ve been walking headfirst into every old wound I’ve ever carried.
The people who aren’t here. The ones who can’t come. The ones who won’t come because they’ve already made sure I know I don’t belong to them anymore.
Every vendor meeting turns into a pop quiz in emotional landmines:
- “Will your father be walking you down the aisle?”
- “Are you doing a mother-daughter dance?”
- “Do you need corsages for your family?”
Nope. No father. No mother. No sister.
Just me, staring at the blank spaces, trying to make peace with all the names that won’t be written down.
Here’s what you won’t see on wedding blogs:
I’m spending my engagement worrying if my daughter’s dress will fit, if we can afford the catering, and whether I’ll have enough gas money to make it to the venue.
I’m piecing together secondhand decorations and DIY-ing everything because we’re not rich, and life keeps throwing bills faster than I can dodge them.
I’m trying to write vows while also wondering how to explain to my daughter why my family isn’t showing up for me—or for her.
I’m grieving my mom while planning this whole day.
Grieving the fact that she won’t see me in my dress. That I can’t call her to scream about how stressful this all is.
And at the same time, I’m excited. I’m marrying the love of my life. He’s steady. He’s good. He makes me feel safe in ways I didn’t know were possible.
That’s the hardest part of it all:
The grief and the joy show up together, holding hands, inseparable.
This wedding isn’t going to look like a fairytale. It’s going to look like us…a little messy, a lot scrappy, but deeply rooted in love.
There will be empty chairs and missing names.
There will be people who wonder why certain relatives aren’t there.
And there will be zero explanations given, because my peace costs more than anyone’s curiosity.
Here’s the truth: I’ve been walking myself down every damn aisle my entire life.
I’ve mothered myself, defended myself, fought for myself, and learned to celebrate myself—even when no one else showed up.
So yeah, when I walk down that aisle this November, it’ll be on my terms.
Wounds, weirdness, grief, joy, and all.
Because this wedding isn’t about who isn’t there.
It’s about who is starting with me.