I don’t like my wedding ring. I never have. I don’t even wear it, and so, I’m recycling it.
It’s never been an accurate representation of our love. Or has it? I mean, we were married so fast, and at the time neither of us had healed our money-stuff.
In October of 2012, he asked me to marry him, on top of my favorite ridge overlooking the Delaware, on the ninth day we had ever spent in person.
Before that day, we had spent just a week in Mt. Shasta, after a long distance year of Twin Flame Facebook love letters, and late night phone calls.
With the most incredible certainty I have ever known, I said Yes.
That ring on my finger, made my whole body electric. Committing to us was the best thing I have ever done (and is the best thing I continue to do).
I hadn’t really planned on marriage. I always thought I’d avoid it like the plague. Before I met him, marriage seemed a war zone, with far too much at stake.
The ring: I didn’t love it. I wanted to love it. I tried to love it. As we drove home from that hike on the ridge, I held my left hand up against the black steering wheel and took it in with willing eyes.
Maybe I’ll like you someday, I thought, still high from the realness of our lives combined.
A few days after he asked me to be his partner, we were married, on the edge of the forest by our Shaman friend Denise.
I held seventeen red roses against my forty-nine dollar department store dress — a miracle after Hurricane Sandy, because all the florist shops were closed, and the ones that were open had lost all their flowers with the extended power outage.
We read our vows nestled between the white pines and hemlocks, and then I drove him an hour and a half to Newark airport so he could catch a flight back to Louisiana, where he had a home, two children, and a job to return to.
He sent me a text from the plane, before take off. As he felt his ring on his hand, he was overwhelmed with pride, in us.
At work the next day, the girls wanted to hear the story, and to see my ring. I was buzzing with bliss, but as each one held my hand and examined my ring, I felt a new wave of cold shame.
It had four small diamonds that were pretending to be one big diamond, and I didn’t like all that pretending. They weren’t cruelty free. And it wasn’t my style, at all.
Plus, it didn’t even fit on my finger, it was too big.
I was disappointed that he didn’t get me the right size. And disappointed that he didn’t save up for something better. Was this was my ego trying to rain on our parade? Or was it okay not to like this ring? Wasn't I supposed to love it?
I started to think that maybe this marriage was something I just needed to grow into.
And it was. By the time I finally had the ring resized, we had grown into our union more fully. But I still didn’t actually like the ring. And as flimsy as it was, it couldn’t handle being resized, and a diamond fell out.
And when that diamond fell out, I stopped wearing it altogether.
It was cheap, that ring. And it opened me up to a goldmine of healing. It opened me into a chapter in my life, where I'd learn how to provide for myself and my desires completely, and with Joy.
To all the women out there who've felt a similar invitation into their own sovereignty and earning potential, I see you, I feel you, and I'm celebrating you like wild.