Welcome to the end of the beginning. 

• Introduction •

 The dress lived up in the cedar chest above the staircase for three years. I didn’t have to see it to know it was still there. After the break up I planned on just letting it collect more dust, but then Maddie and I came up with a staged wedding photoshoot idea to promote her photography. Sadly, those plans fell through.

BUT that idea sparked this particular one…

It was a typical September evening. I was sitting on the front porch with Mom, rambling on about the list of things Maddie and I needed to pull off this staged wedding shoot when she interrupted the conversation to tell me about the rose bushes.

Three years ago, Mom and Nana picked out real rose bushes for the wedding. They were used as decorations for the ceremony, and then afterwards my parents planted them in their front yard. It was symbolic and sentimental–their love will grow over the years in these rose bushes. You know, mushy-gushy stuff. Anyways, they continued to bloom and grow through the passing years. The last time I bothered to glance up before backing out of the driveway, they were full of life.

“They’re dead,” Mom told me that night on the porch.

I knew absolutely nothing about rose bushes or their life expectancy. She read the look on my face and explained how they were perfectly healthy and blossomed out, but then the break up happened. A few weeks later she was sweeping the front porch off and happened to look up and notice they were dead.

A strange feeling settled in the pit of my stomach. Goosebumps broke out on my arms as I sat there in silence, staring out across the yard where the rose bushes were. The flowers shriveled and fell onto the ground along with the leaves. The only thing that remained was the dark, fragile branches.

This was very weird considering they never had any issues in the past, and were doing completely fine before all of this happened.

I knew it then.

This wasn’t my wedding dress anymore. It was time to stop avoiding its presence in that stupid cedar chest and deal with it.

Finally put it to rest.

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• Part I •

• Aunt Connie •

We all meet those people in our lives that we just know they’re one of kind. This is my Aunt Connie. She’s tiny in her bones, soft-spoken in her voice, and the most graceful, gentle woman I’ve ever met. My mom, in her teenage years, met Aunt Connie in church. Aunt Connie became a very special person in Mom’s young adult life. I won’t get into any of that, because that’s not my story to tell. The point is Mom made a life long friend that became family. All I’ve ever known her as in my life is Aunt Connie.

Anyways, Aunt Connie always loved to sew, so when Mom had ideas for a dresses, guess who she went to? See, here’s the thing: being a six foot tall woman, it’s difficult to find dresses that hit you at the right length. Aunt Connie’s ability to sew was Mom’s lifesaver.

And then I was born. *insert dramatic hair flip here*

So yeah, I was abnormally tall as a child–as some of y’all could probably imagine–so thank God for Aunt Connie. She made all of my Halloween costumes and most of my dresses throughout my childhood. She also made me this really awesome denim jacket and HAND STITCHED patches of butterflies and other quirky things all over it. The woman is amazingly talented.

I think I was in kindergarten here. Not really sure. Anyways, Aunt Connie made this outfit. Clearly, the picture on the left I was giving the camera my best mean-mug shot, since I was a cowgirl and all.

One year for Halloween Mom and I were matching angels. We also had these matching tie-dye dresses—back in the early 2000’s when tie-dye was cool.

Aunt Connie lived about an hour from us, so my mom, sister, and I always took small road trips to Hartford to visit her. She lived in the middle of nowhere where sunflowers grew along her fence, and cows and horses grazed her pasture. Uncle Frank, her husband, was always on his tractor working out in the field, or fishing off the dock in their pond. Aunt Connie raised Chow Chow dogs, and when you arrived they ran up and greeted you with snotty nose kisses on your legs.

We knocked once on the door and went on inside. The house always smelled like warm cookies and a mixture of her laundry detergent and air fresheners. She softly hugged us, giving our shoulders a gentle squeeze in the process, and then stepped back to get a good look at us to see how much we’d grown since she last saw us.

My sister and I sat on the couch and played with her cats while Aunt Connie and Mom blabbed about hem lines, the kind of pattern Mom wanted on her dresses, and life stuff. Eventually, my sister and I got bored and went outside to roam around and play with the horses. We stayed out there until Mom yelled at us from the porch to come back in—which meant it was our turn to get fitted. We stepped into her spare bedroom. I dug my toes in her shaggy carpet, and my sister lounged out on the bed while Aunt Connie and Mom continued to blabber on about our dresses and measurements. Aunt Connie paused and asked us if we wanted whatever pie she had sitting out on her kitchen counter that day, or if we wanted a glass of tea. Of course me and my sister jumped up and nodded in excitement. Mom eyed us, as if she was silently saying, “Don’t make her serve you. Go get it yourself.” But Aunt Connie always beat us into the kitchen and insisted she get it for us. Which in return made Mom glare at us even more as she intervened Aunt Connie, doubly insisting she could cut us a slice of pie.

“I’ve got it, Connie. You go sit down.”

“No, really it’s okay.”

This went back and forth for a while. My sister and I just stared at each other, biting back our grins, because we were secretly laughing at the fact that Aunt Connie was bossing our mom around.

It may not seem like much, but we loved those times at Aunt Connie’s. Got a Halloween costume idea? Aunt Connie can make it. Prom dress needs to be taken up in the waist. Aunt Connie can do it. Want patches on your denim skirt? Aunt Connie can easily do that. It was just the way of life.

I was fifteen when Uncle Frank was diagnosed with cancer. He didn’t live very long after that. I was seventeen when Aunt Connie was diagnosed with Parkinson’s Disease. Mom told us she probably wouldn’t be sewing things for us anymore, because her hands shook too bad. A couple months later I got engaged. More than anything I wanted Aunt Connie to make my wedding dress, but I refused to ask her. I felt like that would be too selfish of me. But then Mom told her the news.

“Well, I’m making her dress,” she said, as matter of fact.

“No, we will find one, Connie. It’d be too hard on you,” Mom said.

After countless minutes of bantering back and forth, Aunt Connie ended the conversation with: “I will be fine. I’m making her dress.”

And that was that.

My sweet, amazing, wonderful Aunt Connie was going to make the wedding dress of my dreams. I was absolutely thrilled. There wasn’t any other person on the planet I trusted with as big of a task. Through the time span of nine months, we made several trips to her house for fittings. Not only was she making my wedding dress, but my two bridesmaid’s dresses, my Nana’s dress, and my Mom’s dress.

Aunt Connie’s fragile hands would shake against my skin as she spun the measuring tape around my waist. When she spoke, it was softer than a lullaby, and when she smiled up at me, it was the kind of smile that met her eyes.

In that nine months, Aunt Connie learned she had breast cancer.

My. Heart. Broke.

But she kept on with the dress, delicately crafting each piece of material until it was beautifully complete. For the final fitting, I remember looking at Mom and Aunt Connie, swallowing back my tears. Mom’s eyes filled with tears of her own. Aunt Connie looked like the happiest woman on the planet–full of so much pride as if I was the sun in her sky. And here she was wearing a wig, practically skin and bones, but she stood so elegant and proud.

We hugged and cried and laughed. I enjoyed one last piece of pie while her and Mom stepped out on the front porch and talked about life.

The pasture was grown up with tall weeds; the horses and cows were gone. What was once a lively, bright, full of noise home had gone completely still and silent. It had been that way since Uncle Frank passed away. Now, it was just Aunt Connie with her dog she’d adopted a few years back from the humane society after her Chows died, and a cat that spent most of its life outside.

We loaded up the dress and my heart swelled with love and burst with pain at how much had changed; at how fast life had zoomed by.

Stay with me. We’re halfway there.

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• Part II •

• Mama •

Growing up, the only person I wanted to be was my mama.

Since day one, it’s always been her–the one person in this whole world that I can count on; that I know will be standing right there beside me when it’s all said and done. Throughout my entire my life she’s never seized to amaze me. She’s constantly bending over backwards to make her family happy. She’s got a big heart full of passion and affection, and sometimes I wonder how I got so lucky to be her daughter.

When I told her I was thinking about getting married, she asked: “Do you love him?”

“I do.”

Her eyes filled with tears and she smiled, looking at me as if I was ten-years-old again. “Okay, we support you.”

I was seventeen years old when I had this conversation with her, and you know what? I didn’t hesitate for a second to talk to her about it. That’s how things have always been between me and my mom—open and comfortable. Growing up, if I had a question about boys, sex, drugs, whatever, I went straight to her. She gave me real, truthful answers. She didn’t shy away from certain subjects. Ever.

My mom is my person. Always has been and always will be.

So when I told her I wanted to get married she really did support me, despite how young I was, because she knew the person I was and who she’d raised me to be, and she had faith in that.

My wedding was just as much of a dream to her as it was to me. Her baby girl was getting married.

We instantly started planning the wedding. I was laidback and really didn’t plan much of anything. The most I did was say “yes” when her and my Nana presented an idea to me. The week before the wedding my Nana and Mom were at the venue every day setting up and decorating. I was overwhelmed by love and gratitude how much my family came together to put this ceremony in motion—my Aunts, my Uncles, my friends.

The night before my wedding I lay awake in bed with Mom. I was nervous and excited, but, more than anything, terrified that since I was getting married I would lose my connection with her. I struggled with the idea of growing up, and getting married was a VERY grown up thing to do. It was never my intention to move too quickly into another chapter of my life. I’m a writer that way. I like to ravish in the now and what’s placed in front of me for as much time as I can. At that certain point in my life I was still a kid that always had her mother no matter what.

I told her how I felt. She grabbed my hand and squeezed it, wiping away my tears. She held me against her chest and kissed my hair. It made me feel like I was a kid again.

“Never,” she whispered.

I don’t why I thought getting married meant having to give up my time and how close I was with my mom. That’s not how it works, in case you’re wondering.

My mom made my wedding happen. Every small detail from the burlap strands lining the ceiling in the venue to the rose bushes placed at the doors. She gave me the wedding any daughter would hope for.

This isn’t just a sappy post about my wedding dress and me saying goodbye to it. This thing that happened to me didn’t just affect me–it affected my family too. They are still trying to heal from all of this just like me. Putting down my dress is the finale. A way to lower all of this into the ground and bury it in the past.

For me to create a different memory in my dress

To show my love and appreciation towards my amazing Aunt Connie

For my sister who came over every morning and crawled in bed with me just to make sure I was okay

For my Nana who endlessly lifted me up with her words and made me laugh by being her usual over-protective self

For my dad who sat in the floor with me as we cried together; who helped me move furniture down the stairs and the new furniture back up

For my mom who stayed up with me until dawn packing up his stuff and helping me recreate my space; who made me get out of bed and stay busy when life felt too hard to handle; who who taught me how to be a strong, gentle, decisive, tenacious person.

This post is for all of them to say their goodbyes in this too.

Side Note: And for those who may be the slightest bit curious, I’ll be twenty-two years old in ten days, and my mom is still my person.

Here’s a picture to prove it.

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• Part III •

• We Made It To The End •

So now you know the significance of my wedding dress. When I boxed up all of our sentimental things and gave them to him, I couldn’t hand it over. It was a part of my Aunt Connie and my mom and everyone else that poured their hearts and souls into making that day special. And it was the very last thing my Aunt Connie ever sewed and stitched together for me.

When I look back on all of the memories it makes me a little sad. But then I remember Mom and Nana going from chair to chair putting the seat covers on two days before the wedding ceremony; I remember my Dad and Papaw unloading the doors that I got married in front of; I remember my Uncle Dustin and Aunt Kathy renting huge tents to go outside so our guests wouldn’t get to hot; I remember all of the laughs and fun I had dancing with my family at the reception, and afterwards them insisting we go home and relax while they tore down and loaded everything up. I remember dancing with my dads, Uncle Richard, and Papaw and bawling my eyes out because I didn’t know how to convey just how much I loved and appreciated them with just words. I remember people pulling me aside and telling me how proud they were of me. I remember glancing through the crowd every so often to sneak a peak of Mom to make sure she was okay. There were a few times I caught her crying.

For the first few months after the split up I blocked out all of these memories, because they brought along a splintering type of pain. November marks six months since we’ve been broken up, and I can assure you all that the pain has softened.

Saying goodbye is extremely difficult. Time continues and those memories slowly tear away and it hurts. You don’t have a choice but to sit there and feel it. The comfortable way out would’ve been for me to keep the dress as it was for the rest of my life–leave it folded away in that cedar chest, knowing it was content. And then I thought about my Aunt Connie and all the hard work she put into it. Literally every thread was stitched with love.

But the reality was that I wouldn’t ever wear it again. Its time was finished. I had to accept that and decide what to do with it.

The first time I wore this dress I was eighteen-years-old, scared to death of life and the future; secretly doubting the decision to get married; worried I would never accomplish any of my dreams. I was so naive and so in love.

This time I got to wear it as a twenty-one-year-old, free as the birds in the sky; so in love with life; with scars that came with the greatest pain I’ve ever felt, but replaced with a strength I never knew I had inside of me.

To anyone with a broken heart:

Give it time. It gets easier. And know you are not alone.

To anyone going through a break up:

1. Get rid of anything that makes you think of them

2. It’s okay to cry. Don’t hold shit in

3. Give it time. The pain dulls with each day

4. Breathe

5. Know that it gets easier

6. Listen to “Bad Blood” by Taylor Swift and “Rolling in the Deep” by Adele on repeat and sing your heart out. Stay away from the slow songs

7. Ice cream helps, so eat a lot of it

8. Start a project. Work on it instead of lying in bed thinking about them

9. Write down five things you’ve always wanted to do and go do them

10. Know that the universe did you a favor. You’re better off without them. Believe that there’s something/someone better out there waiting for you

I have found that the hardest part throughout all of this has been learning to grieve someone that is still alive. I’m still taking it day by day. There is no easy way to be better. You just have to decide it and do it. No questions; no thoughts; no doubts. You just make the decision and stick to it. You tell yourself you’re going to be okay until you start to believe it.

That is when it starts to get easier.