I’m like a wild stallion,” I hear myself say. “Frolicking through the forest.” I’m sitting in a sports bar. I’m 30 years old. I know nothing about horses.

“And then one day a fence is built around the forest. And even if it were the biggest fence ever, and it was so big I would never even reach it to see it in person, I would still know it was there.”

This is how I explained my aversion to marriage a decade ago, to the person I professed to love, who I’d been dating for four, and then five years.

I would be trapped; the part I left unsaid.

When I told my mum about my feelings back then, she told me I’d feel that way with anyone. She seemed to encourage me to just do it, to get married. I wonder if there were leftover feelings there about my dad, whose face I wear with little more than youth and long hair to differentiate us, who, per my mother, has always felt “trapped.” They never married, though I bet she would have liked to, compatibility be damned.

I didn’t take my mother’s advice. I stayed in limbo, debating whether to leave or get hitched until I sabotaged the relationship in a blaze of excruciating glory. It’s not something I’m proud of. But resisting the good-relationship-to-lackluster-marriage pipeline that seems reflexive—expected— certainly is.

Now, as I near my 40^th birthday, wearing a conspicuous pear-shaped rock on my finger, it’s astonishing how trapped I don’t feel. And yet, the worries abound.

How did I get here?

For those of us who never thought we’d be here—the women who weren’t raised religious or traditional, the women with jobs they love, the women who are single well into their thirties, city slickers and homebody cottage-core girlies, the women who actually like dating, who actually love their single lives—the prospect of marrying can provoke ambivalence. It can seem incongruous with the carefully curated life and personality we’ve carved out over the years. It can feel like a betrayal of that inner child, for whom you’ve traveled the world, and bought a house; For whom you’ve created community and a sense of fierce independence. It can feel, at worst, like giving in to traditions we are way too cool for.

And at other times, when we’re not thinking about our personas, when we’re writing on our laptop while our partner lightly strums a guitar in the other room with what sound to us like expert fingers—it can feel like an exhale. Like caffeine in the morning. A fuzzy throw blanket on the couch: You could do movie night without it, but why would you ever?

Having deep, loving, healthy partnership unlocks a whole new dimension. We didn’t need it, of course. We weren’t lacking or missing. But that’s what makes it so special; The enhancement it brings.

The feeling of knowing someone has your back—will lay with you in the sun, will stand with you in the muck—is epic. Mutual respect and support is wildly, incredibly hot. Sparking chemistry that is both physical and intellectual feels like hitting the lottery. (And boy, do we pray, despite our agnosticism, that that part will last.) The quiet, cozy security of knowing they’re there is just the best.

It’s weird for someone who used to think that, and I quote: “Everything I ever do will be more meaningful because I will have done it alone” to settle into partnered-up bliss for the long-haul. My mind is changing about so many things, and unpacking the reasons is going to keep my therapist in business for the long-haul.

I’m touching on some of these particular mental hurdles below. For any of you ‘never-expected-to-be-soon-to-be-brides’, I’m sure you’ll understand.

For anyone who has all the answers, please fill us in.

Questions from the Engaged and Confused

What does my new status as soon-to-be married person say about my life before?

In short, am I a fraud?

For years I was not only content being unmarried but utterly thrilled to be. It astounded me how ready people were to contractually sign themselves over to another person, for a period of forever, with enforcement by the government. It frustrated me how women were brought up dreaming of marriage, believing, à la Disney, that a wedding was a happy ending.  (I always thought some follow up footage should be shown: The prince and princess fighting over the temperature in the castle, dealing with their meddling in-laws, skipping time with one another to scroll, or golf, or drink, or screw other people, or obsess over the kids.) It baffled me to see the extent to which a little sparkly ring—or the lack thereof—could determine self-worth for so many complex, successful, incredible women.

I could go on forever in a feminist rant, railing against antiquated traditions and gender norms. And yet, here I am, a dazzling left hand, shopping for wedding venues with all the fervor of someone who really believes. Who really wants the happy ending.

This all leads me to wonder: Was my sense of independence—one of my favorite character traits—actually just a defense mechanism? Was it born out of a need to shield me from heartache? A need to survive? Is my holier-than-thou, boss-bitch attitude just a front? Were all my supposed opinions just chatter?

Do people change their minds, or are we all just making the best of our own particular situation, convincing ourselves through repeated decrees?

I am happy. I’m not settling. I’m the prize. I don’t need anybody.

Am I just a basic bitch with a diamond?

Can I believe a word I’ve said?

Is love a pie?

I have goals.

What about the book I haven’t published yet? That I actually haven’t gotten ‘round to editing yet? The musical talent I haven’t quite honed or harnessed? Will all my creative passions fall by the wayside when I’m safe and loved and secure and happy? When I have not only a partner to snuggle around with, and go out for afternoon lattes with, and talk to in the mornings instead of wrangling my thoughts into sentences on a page; but also a crying, moving, needing-me baby? 

Do I have enough love to love writing still, once two people in my household are absorbing so much of my supply? Is love a pie? Can my passions still get a piece?

Will they not seem as important when my life is fuller and busier? Will they not seem as important when my wife makes so much money (three times my salary) that I can really afford to rest on my laurels?

And speaking of money—

Am I going to turn into a housewife once this hypothetical kid comes? Not that there’s anything wrong with housewifery, but while we’re talking fears, relying on another person for my financial security might just be the Mecca in my religion of dread.

What if we break up someday and she gets everything? What if I feel beholden to the person who earns more in the relationship? What if she someday becomes resentful that I can’t contribute an equal half of the budget? Or that her lifestyle could be elevated to an even bougier level with a different, higher-earning partner?

I don’t actually think these things will happen. But they seriously could.

How do we manage these tried and true, rational fears as we set forth on this adventure of joining hearts and households? How can I be a strong, independent woman when my wife is paying all the bills? How do we make equal what is not?

The other thing.

I guess while we’re doing fear, I’ll bring up the other thing.

I’m bisexual. I’m happily one of the small percentage of bisexual women who will end up marrying a woman. But no matter who I married, the very nature of marriage—it’s permanence—means I’ll be leaving behind a side of myself. Ostensibly, I’ll never date another man again. If I were marrying a man, I’d be swearing off women forever.

I’m not having second thoughts, I have no desire to be with anyone else. Still, there is something about it that gnaws at me. When I’m single, I get to be my whole self. I have enough space for all of me to fit. Over the years I’ve been able to exercise the full breadth of my sexuality, doing whatever felt right in the moment. Now I’m buckling up for a long, long road of sameness.

I’m excited as hell, don’t get it twisted. It’s just that with the engagement, it feels like I’ve chosen. Picked a side. There’s a finality to it that doesn’t so much worry me, as feels discordant. Think of your favorite song without a base line, or missing a melody. Who am I if I’m not bi?

My marriage won’t change my sexuality, of course, but it will alter how I’m perceived out in the world. That probably shouldn’t matter, but it chafes the part of me that fought for so long to accept who I was, to say it out loud, and to embrace it. Now that I’ve been free, I can’t be caged.

Pebbles

Perhaps, in a way, I’m still my old self, making metaphors of cages to catastrophise the sweet and scary thing that is commitment. And, in a way, that same old fear is a comfort. Who would I be if I sank into the bliss of new love, security, and happiness, never giving thought to the ways it could ruin me?

With the acknowledgement of all that could happen, the intact resolve to do it anyway, aren’t I more equipped for marriage than a hopeless romantic?

Maybe holding each of these fears, like tiny pebbles in my pocket, will allow me to walk into the next chapter with ease. Maybe their slight weight, their smooth surfaces against my fingertips, will serve as a reminder. “Everything is different now, but I’m still myself.”

About the Author

Antoinette is a flight attendant and writer living in San Diego, California. You can find her at awheelinthesky.com, where she writes about travel, flight attendant life, and all things personal. She lives for strong coffee and sweet treats, and (despite this) hopes to live to be 200. She is joyfully terrified to say “I do” this year.