I Never Imagined Being a Bride Like This
I never imagined being a bride like this.
Not in a borrowed dress with a hem that trails through temple dust. Not with jasmine braided into my hair by a woman I met only yesterday. Not with the sound of monks chanting in the distance while tuk-tuks hum like bees beyond the garden wall.
I imagined white. I imagined symmetry. I imagined a ballroom with chandeliers and a seating chart that made sense. I imagined my mother’s pearls and my father’s toast and a cake so tall it needed scaffolding.
But this—this is something else.
It’s the way the light hits the ruins at Ta Prohm, casting shadows like lace across my bare shoulders. It’s the way my bouquet of marigolds wilts in the heat, unapologetically alive. It’s the way he looks at me—not like I’m perfect, but like I’m real.
We didn’t plan this. Not in the traditional sense. There was no registry, no rehearsal dinner, no Pinterest board. Just a conversation under a mango tree, a shared glance, and the quiet agreement that love doesn’t always need permission.
He asked me to marry him with a ring carved from coconut shell. I said yes with dirt under my nails and tears in my eyes. We didn’t tell anyone until the morning of. We didn’t need to.
I never imagined being a bride like this.
But maybe that’s the point.
Maybe the best things in life aren’t imagined—they’re discovered. Like the way the silk of my skirt clings to my legs as I walk barefoot through the courtyard. Like the way the incense curls around our vows, making them feel ancient and sacred. Like the way the local children peek through the gate, giggling, tossing petals like confetti.
There’s no aisle. No organ. No veil.
Just us.
And the sky.
And the promise.
I used to think weddings were about performance. About perfection. About proving something to everyone who’d ever doubted you. But here, in the heart of Siem Reap, with the scent of lemongrass and the sound of drums echoing through the trees, I realize it’s not about any of that.
It’s about choosing.
Choosing each other. Choosing this moment. Choosing to let go of the script and write our own.
He wore linen. Wrinkled, of course. His hair was still damp from the river. He forgot the boutonnière, but remembered the poem. The one he wrote on the back of a receipt. The one that said, “You are the garden I never knew I needed.”
I read mine from memory. It wasn’t long. Just a few lines about how love is like a cracked pot—flawed, but capable of holding water.
We didn’t exchange rings. We exchanged stories. Promises. Laughter.
And when the ceremony ended—if you can call it that—we danced. Not a choreographed waltz, but a barefoot shuffle in the dust, surrounded by lanterns and laughter and the kind of music that doesn’t need lyrics.
I never imagined being a bride like this.
But I wouldn’t trade it for anything.
Because this isn’t just a wedding. It’s a reckoning. A reclamation. A reminder that love doesn’t have to be polished to be profound.
It can be messy. It can be wild. It can bloom in places you never expected.
Like a marigold in temple stone.
Like a vow whispered in Khmer.
Like a bride who never imagined this—but chose it anyway.
And tomorrow, when the jasmine fades and the silk is stained and the coconut ring cracks, I’ll still be his. And he’ll still be mine.
Not because we followed the rules.
But because we made our own.
