Before my husband and I were even a couple, he once asked me what I would do if I ever really liked someone. I was not known for liking people very much, but I had thought about it enough to answer.
“I would get married,” I texted.
“That is pretty traditional for a nontraditional girl,” he wrote back.
“Well,” I replied, “I do not believe in sitting on the fence. And I definitely do not need a boyfriend. Plus, I would marry the person over and over.”
I hit send, then spent the next 15 minutes explaining what I meant. I did not want one massive wedding with one massive price tag and the pressure of making everything perfect in a single day. If I ever married, I wanted the freedom to do it again and again because the 10th time would feel different from the first.
At the time, it sounded like a quirky theory. Twelve years later, it has become the way I understand marriage.
So far, I have married my husband five times. Though we have only done it once legally, each time we exchange vows I learn something new about myself and our relationship.
The First Wedding
The first time was at a courthouse, and I cried the entire way through. After we moved in together, my husband proposed in the middle of sex and then took me to Ikea, which honestly feels like the most accurate version of modern romance. We started planning a wedding, but then one night he said, “I really just wish we were already married.” I said, “We can be.” A few days later, we stood before a judge in the York County Courthouse. I cried loudly and uncontrollably through the entire ceremony. I cried so much that I am convinced the judge thought I was a victim of human trafficking. He looked genuinely alarmed by the idea that this man made me sob my way into matrimony. It was ridiculous, memorable, real, and totally raw. If that had been my only wedding, my only chance to mark the moment, I am not sure I would feel as tender about it now. Thankfully, it was not.
The Second Wedding
The second time was the wedding I had always imagined. We later married at a small inn in Connecticut with a bouquet, gluten-free cake, handwritten vows, and photographs. I still cried, but less this time. I had vows to read aloud and mascara to protect. It was the stuff of fairy tales, and the innkeepers knew exactly how to make it memorable. It was dreamy and intentional. It felt like a celebration instead of a confession.
The Third Wedding
The third time was across from a strip club. We were in Vegas for work and decided it was as good a time as any to say “I do” again. After sushi and DefCon talks, an ex-Iraqi Freedom fighter drove us across town in his taxi to a small chapel where a minister named Cotton live-streamed our ceremony. He read from the Book of Ruth, my very Southern grandmother’s favorite book. She had been gone for decades, but standing there, I felt like she had reached across time to whisper: Where you go, I will go, and your people will be my people. I cried again on livestream. At that point, I accepted that this is simply who I am: the woman who cries at weddings she keeps having with the same man.
The Fourth Wedding
The fourth time was in a cave. For Valentine’s Day, we descended into an underground lake in Tennessee to renew our vows. A local radio DJ officiated the ceremony. There were neon hearts, a boat ride across dark water, and the DJ’s tone of voice made everything feel like we were about to take a commercial break. It was like the Egyptian underworld with better lighting and no one to weigh my heart against a feather. Fearsome creatures aside, I fully admit that when they turned off the lights to show just how deep and dark the cave went, I cried again. Of course I did.
The Fifth Wedding
The fifth time was in France. At Le Mont-Saint-Michel, a Catholic abbey rising from the sea, we renewed our vows once more. The priest was flustered as he hunted for the correct liturgy. My grandmother was a devoted Baptist. Her people spoke in tongues and made up entire sermons on the fly. They let the voice of God catapult them to the next words. The Catholics operate with more precision. As I watched the priest shuffle his papers, I realized something I had not expected: how deeply comforting ritual can be. The priest finally found his words. I breathed deep and willed myself not to cry, not because I was not full of emotion, but because I felt that tears would confuse the already flustered clergyman. I thought back to that moment in York County 12 years prior and the look on the judge’s face during my incessant weeping. Then I brought myself back into the now. The soft lilt of the priest’s French accent as he read in English, the afternoon light, and the magnificence of saying “I do” made me feel centered and grounded. The liturgy was quick. We were blessed with holy water and then sent out into the main room where an enormous statue of Michel defeating the dragon sat. On the way out, I gave a nod to Joan of Arc. It was about as far from that Vegas strip club as I could get. Repeating words spoken for hundreds of years, standing in a space that held centuries of devotion, and letting the weight of history remind me that love is something you choose not just once but again and again made my eyes water, but there was no ugly crying. That time I stayed present, I listened, and I felt the moment land exactly where it was supposed to. Standing in a fortress on the sea, I experienced a metaphor for how powerful love can be.
Why We Keep Doing It
Not everyone understands why we do this. Once, in a group conversation, someone scoffed, “It is not like your vows expire.” She was not wrong, but she also was not listening. For me, remarriage is not about expiration dates. It is about attention. As an ordained Buddhist, I believe one of the most powerful acts we have is presence, really showing up in a moment instead of replaying old versions of ourselves. Every time we marry again, I am forced to ask: How do I feel now? Who are we today? What does love look like in this season of our lives? And most importantly, who am I? Maybe many of us would need less couples therapy if we asked those questions more often, intentionally and out loud.
Weddings do not have to be one-time performances. I once worked with a woman who had been planning her dream wedding since high school. She did not even have a boyfriend yet, but she had the dress picked out. When I asked why, she said simply, “Because I want the pretty dress.” And honestly, that is fair. Marriage is deeply personal. For some people, it is about the spectacle. For others, it is about tradition. For me, it is about renewal, transformation, and love. Love does not show up once. The success of any great partnership is that love shows up again and again. It is about standing in front of the same person and saying: I choose you, again and again and again.
I have also learned that it is about choosing yourself, showing up for your needs, being present, and staying centered. In a world that wants to pull you in a thousand different directions at once, this is a well-earned life skill. We do not know yet where the sixth “I do” will happen, but I do know this: love does not have to be marked only once, and you do not need a ballroom or a budget or a perfectly timed life milestone. Sometimes all you need is a courthouse, sometimes a cave, sometimes a priest who cannot find his script, and sometimes a taxi driver with a war story. If you have ever wished you could go back to your wedding day, maybe you can. If you have ever felt like your relationship deserved a fresh beginning, maybe it does. You do not have to marry your partner five times, but you can choose them again today. You can show up for love and let it wow you in a new, unexpected way.
