I Swore I'd Never Get Married Again. Here's Why I Changed My Mind

Nearly a decade after divorcing, I'm engaged for a second time. Here's what happened and why 40 is the perfect age to be the bride of your dreams.

I’ve always been obsessed with everything to do with families. Family holidays, photo albums, multi-generational gatherings—all of it. As a child from a broken home, families, especially of the nuclear variety, fascinated me. Looking back, one of the biggest reasons I got engaged as a 24-year-old sapling was because I was so desperate for an elementary unit. At the time, my mum and her new husband were living in Cape Town, my dad was in Munich and I barely spoke to my brother. I’d landed back in London after Uni rootless and still consumed by the idea of the mythical 2.4. To say I made a mistake is an understatement, but you can’t teach kids these kinds of lessons. I know we’re all meant to live without regret, but of the countless missteps I’ve made along the way, emotionally it is still the zinger. By the time it was over, I was 30 and had misspent my salad days in so many ways. 

When I met the father of my kids, I was still married to my ex-husband. My new beau was beside me through the scorching days of my divorce and if not entirely absorbed with it, (he was only 26 and emotionally fairly one-dimensional — part of the appeal at the time) he was physically present to distract me. I was only single for six months in between, and for two of those I was Tindering. I know that isn’t what you’re meant to do. After eight years with one person, there’s meant to be a prolonged period of contemplation, where you go through several stages of grief, anger then complete your quest with a redemptive haircut. You’re meant to ‘work on yourself’ and gain clarity so you don’t take the wrong route again. But I didn’t have a Damascene moment and, in my panic and heartache, I was ripe for another dodgy turn. There was no new grasp on how my own behaviour had led to calamity, no list of new rules on what I felt I ‘deserved’ from a partner going forward. I hadn’t found a fresh appreciation for what constituted a ‘red flag’. It was just good fortune that I didn’t bump into a wrong’un, nothing more. I always underline this, because there is such a pressure after a breakup to somehow emerge from the chrysalis of coupledom into a better version of yourself, a version who will finally be ready or good enough for a solid partner. Of course, there is some truth to the whole ‘you have to love yourself to be loved’ message. But I certainly hadn’t attained some higher level of personhood. It was literally a fluke that I happened to find a good man - I certainly did not call that energy in. In fact, I was mostly drunk and unhinged.

I also always mention that I probably could have held my ex to emotional ransom and forced us through some kind of guilt-tripped marital therapy. There’s a distinct possibility that I could still have been to-ing and fro-ing with him and missed my fiancé, missed my boys, missed my second chance. Knowing when to invest on saving something and when to stop flogging a dead horse is such a difficult thing to judge in any relationship. But in this instance, a clean break, as unbearable as it was at the time, set me free to meet my future. If you ever go through anything similar, just try and keep that in mind even as your thoughts slip down that slimy slope of heartbreak.

The result of it all was that I came into my third decade very anti-marriage and adamant that I’d never run that gauntlet again. Divorce has become a rite of passage in my family, which we have all—my parents, brother and stepdad (twice)—been through, and I made what I thought was the sensible decision of stopping that story in its tracks. After all, you can’t get divorced without getting married first. I started my new relationship on the proviso that there would never be any wedding bells on the horizon. In lots of ways, my split coloured the foundations of my new relationship, as is the way when we move through the loves in our lives. Financially, we’ve always kept things separate and I’ve always maintained my independence with my work providing me with a totally distinct social life. Fortunately, he like computer games, because I still spend a big proportion of my time without him. In many aspects, I subconsciously tried to guard myself from the worst of a bad break by keeping a few toes out, just in case.

But then, of course, things moved on. We had our babies, entwined our lives, melded our hearts in grief and joy, until we became too close for any piece of paper to ever be able to encompass what we already had. And as we were already more than married in our minds, it started to feel like something I might be open to again. Using my prerogative to change my mind, I tentatively, then more pointedly, put it out there. Since then, my other half had been glacially pacing his next move, until he got down on one knee last Christmas morning, offering me a ring with fat tears rolling down his cheeks. It was the last thing I had expected, mostly because I was in PJs which said ‘Happy Hangover’ on the back, sans knickers and wearing my smeary glasses. But he had wanted my whole family to be a part of the magic—at one point, we all thought my stepdad was having a heart attack because he was so surprised. I was in such a state of shock, I felt the need for a foil blanket, couldn’t drink the champagne and had to stand under the shower for 20 minutes. Real proposals are never a slick combination of emotions, far more like an outer-body experience.

I can’t tell you exactly why the whole shebang started to matter to me again, because I know for sure that it doesn’t. I could have been not married for the rest of my days—it wasn’t like I was ever going anywhere, or there were any ultimatums (though I did have serious plans for Feb 29th, 2024). I know there won’t be any noticeable differences to our day to day. We will row over boxers on the floor and my lack of driving license; we’ll love the kids just the same. While there are financial factors, it wasn’t that either. I think it’s that I’ve finally accepted that none of us can guard against the loss of love and if it were to happen, signing some papers and dividing our dining chairs would be the least of it. All these years, I’ve been fooling myself about an exit plan. We’ve got kids, I’m nearly a decade in, he’s amazing…it would crush me. But in saying all of that, I now know I would be ok if history were to repeat itself. After army crawling through this chewy chapter of my life, I know my own strength and I finally have enough faith in myself to put it in someone else again.

It’s been fifteen years since I last got engaged. That seems and sounds a lifetime ago because it was. The first time around I remember being so uncomfortable about mentioning anything to do with my upcoming nuptials that I used to turn my diamond around and did whatever I could to downplay it. Perhaps that was my intuition screaming at me, but back in the day, I also cared so much what people thought of me. So, I made my engagement subtle, because I didn’t want my boss or friends to think I was an un-hip traditionalist who was prematurely entering fogey-ville. Embarrassed to hog the spotlight or being labelled a ‘bridezilla’, I hosted my hen do at my ex’s family home with only three friends. I barely did anything to organise the big day, so much so that when it arrived, I felt much like a guest at my own wedding. I ended up getting very caught up in family dynamics and who would sit next to each other. And whether or not my bridesmaids liked their dresses. I didn’t book a hairdresser or anyone to help me with my makeup, because I didn’t want to be seen to be making ‘a fuss’. I just wanted everyone to say how low-key and relaxed I was when obviously I was having a near-constant anxiety attack. I was not a bride, nor person, living in truth.

Now I’m marrying the father of my children as a fledged women with a deep hinterland, I feel ready to be a bride with all the trimmings. I know this might disappoint some people who have followed my journey, especially those who enjoyed my earlier writing on why marriage isn’t the be all (it isn’t! But you’re also allowed to change your mind, there just shouldn’t be a hierarchy). I absolutely understand that and sympathise with the many and varied reasons that several hundred people unfollowed me the evening I posted my news on Instagram. Sometimes another person’s happiness can trigger difficult feelings, or else their story may no longer resonate with your own values and situation. When it comes to social media, you have to do whatever is right for you. This time around, I’ll be doing what is right for me on every channel and that means singing it from the rooftops (especially IRL, buckle up, because bridezilla is coming to get her own back 😂). Hopefully (we pray), this will be the last time I say I do, and I want to make it beyond special for my other half. He’s never been engaged, never done any of this and I want it to feel exciting and fresh and heartbreakingly romantic for him, because that is entirely what he deserves. No subtlety or low-keying this time.

Talking of subtlety, a scene in the Sex and the City movie (first, obviously) came to mind as I thought about getting married as a ‘second waver’. It happens early on, when Carrie is called into the Vogue offices, and is schooled by the editor that, ‘40 is the last age a woman can be photographed in a wedding gown without the unintended Diane Arbus subtext.’ The line is problematic for many reasons, but with the benefit of experience, I take a major issue with the idea that marriage should be primarily a young woman’s game. Forty and indeed, forty-plus is an eminently sensible time to get hitched. You’re not apologising for your warts, you know who you are and while there may be some evidence of the passage of time, you give far fewer fucks. And for the record, I have no problem with looking Arbus-y—better than basic anyway.  Next year, or the following one, I will sashay down that aisle with a very personal and singular idea of what marriage really means and it won’t have much to do with the fantasy I once imagined it to be. As much of my liberty has been currently loaned to my children, there’s barely anything to lose. Conversely, I now feel there is a significant amount to gain for myself, for my family and for the days ahead. I didn’t change my name as a twenty-something bride, this time I’ll be adding another to my bank card, if not by-line and throwing caution to the wind by putting it all on black, pinkie toes and all. While nothing in life is certain, least of all our hearts, I’m pretty convinced that this time around, I’ve made a sure bet.