This has been one of the hardest stories I’ve ever told, but I think I’m finally ready to share it.
June 8th, 2019… was supposed to be the happiest day of my life. The day I would marry my best friend, my soulmate, my person. I imagined waking up giddy, nervous, my heart racing at the thought of seeing him at the end of the aisle. I wanted to be swept off my feet, to start our life together surrounded by family and friends, celebrating a love I thought was unshakable. I thought I was ready.
But none of that happened. I called off the wedding three weeks before the date. The man I had fallen in love with was not the man I could call my husband. That realization shook me to my very core. The life I had envisioned—the peaceful, supportive, loving marriage I longed for—was never going to exist. It took me four years to fully see that this man was not right for me.
I chose someone who made me feel special, but he never made me feel truly valued. I noticed him when I was sixteen, completely infatuated, yet for two years I thought nothing would ever come of it. But on June 8th, 2015, we went on our first official date, and I was smitten. I felt like I had been plucked from the crowd—a prize he had chosen—and for a while, I ignored the red flags. Ultimatums started almost immediately.
I began my freshman year of college in Reno, yet I drove back to Sacramento every weekend to see him. He had told me he wouldn’t do long-distance, so I structured my life around him—jobs near his home, weekend shifts, constant travel. I cleaned his house, bought groceries, meal-prepped lunches, and handled miscellaneous tasks he asked of me. If I forgot anything, he became angry. I was desperate to prove my commitment, to show him I was serious about us.
The ultimatums only increased. He demanded to know where I was, who I was with, and expected immediate responses whenever I didn’t answer my phone. Choosing to spend time with my family could spark hours of interrogation. Every spare moment of my life was consumed by household duties or work. If dinner wasn’t ready on time, I was selfish and lazy. I was constantly told I wasn’t doing enough, that I didn’t care enough, and that I needed to try harder.
This became my entire undergraduate experience. No Saturday night football games, no parties, no extracurriculars like marching band or clubs. Friends were scarce, and the ones I did have were often cut off by him. For three years, I convinced myself that these sacrifices were proof of my love and loyalty. Slowly, I became isolated. I lost pieces of myself along the way, caught up in trying to meet his endless demands.
By the time I graduated in 2018, I had fully moved into the home I had spent years caring for, and his control tightened even further. I had hoped that graduation would bring freedom, more time with friends and family, but it didn’t. I was housebound, even as I worked, attended community college classes, and volunteered at the hospital.
His proposal felt like validation. I had done it—I was finally enough to earn a place as his wife. Wearing my engagement ring and calling him my fiancé should have felt amazing, and in some ways, it did. We had a beautiful home, a wonderful church, a great gym, a steady job for him, and my grad school aspirations on the horizon. But internally, I was crumbling. We saw his family multiple times a week, while my own family was barely part of my life. Arguments over household duties and my study time left me in tears. His mother noticed my quiet demeanor and puffy eyes but dismissed it as emotional immaturity. On the outside, my life looked perfect. On the inside, depression was quietly consuming me.
I had no agency in my own life. Fun only happened on his terms. Even wedding planning became a battleground. Time spent with my family or on a task of my own choosing was scrutinized, measured, and criticized. It was his way or the highway.
And then one fight went too far. The darkness I felt that day was unbearable. After four years of being told I wasn’t good enough, I started to believe it myself. I escaped through the second-story window and began walking toward the Foresthill Bridge, the site of our engagement photos, with thoughts I can barely describe. Thankfully, my dad and sister reached me in time. It was the scariest day of my life, and I never want to feel that way again.
Now, a new adventure begins—one I hadn’t chosen but must embrace. I still wanted the life I had dreamed of, still longed for a happy marriage. But I cannot go back. I still have goals, aspirations, and a dream career to pursue. I am learning to value myself, to hold my head high even on the darkest days. I am blessed with an incredible support system, and I am still healing—through anger, sadness, and countless challenges. I have learned what boundaries mean, what I cannot tolerate, and how much I have grown through this experience.
June 8th, 2019, became a day not of heartbreak, but of triumph. I put on my wedding dress, not to marry the wrong person, but to reclaim my story. I felt beautiful. A heartfelt thank you to our would-be wedding photographer, Chelsey Burgess Photography, for supporting me and capturing this moment of victory. Thank you to my family, who threw me a celebration afterward, and to my sister, my would-be maid of honor, who loved and supported me through every messy moment.
To all the women out there: no one is worth sacrificing yourself for. Looks, money, or promises mean nothing if respect is absent. Love can be blind, but your family and friends will see the red flags. Listen to them, and most importantly, listen to yourself. Everyone deserves a love that ignites their soul while offering a safe place to rest. For now, I am focusing on myself—my faith, my family, my friends, and my dreams. One day, I may marry again, but not today.
