I’m a marriage celebrant. I don’t talk about it much because I’m not seeking more weddings to officiate. The short story is that my sister built a function centre on her farm, and nearly three years ago, just before the doors opened, she asked me to help her with marketing. As soon as the first announcement about the venue was made on social media we were inundated with brides wanting to get married there. The all-inclusive packages were/are super popular, and my sister strongly suggested I become a marriage celebrant. I said “no way.” For six months she kept strongly suggesting it. For six months I kept saying “no way.” Then I gave in. In the past year I’ve officiated 35+ weddings at the venue, along with a handful elsewhere. Life is a mystery.
Sometimes the sacred finds us in the most ordinary places - a hospital corridor, a conversation about op shopping, a moment suspended between laughter and tears. This is a story about love that refuses to wait, and what it means to live - fully, bravely, beautifully - even when time is running out.
A couple of weeks ago a woman phoned me. Her brother-in-law is in hospital, terminally ill. He and his partner have been together for twenty years. They’d spoken about getting married, but never got around to it. Now, with time running out, they want to - urgently.
When I went to meet them, I was told I could only be in the hospital room for five minutes. I waited in the hallway with the bride for the right moment. I’d come from a wedding at the farm that afternoon, and showed her a few photos while we waited.
The bride at the farm was nineteen. This bride is in her sixties.
We sat together in that quiet corridor outside the ward, both masked, both suspended in a strange liminal space between love and loss. I told her that my favourite alpaca had given me one of his sweet kisses that day - he nuzzles his tickly fleece against my cheek, and I call it a kiss. Her eyes smiled and she told me her jumper was made from alpaca fleece - found brand new at an op shop, tag still on, something that would have cost $600.
I laughed and told her that my furry jacket came from the Salvos. We bonded over our op shop treasures.
There we were, sitting on a table in a hospital hallway, talking about alpacas and second-hand finds - two women connected in the most ordinary way, while her life was quietly breaking apart.
I’m feeling all sorts of things about officiating this wedding - mostly deep gratitude. It already feels like holy ground.
While I haven’t spoken with them directly about what marriage means to them, I’ve been reflecting on it. In the middle of grief, shock and brutal medical treatment, they’ve found one thing they’re sure about: they want to make their love official. They want to belong to each other in the eyes of the world.
Love as an anchor. Love as a ceremony. Love as a last promise.
A few years ago I lived next door to a family whose toddler was killed in a car crash. Their older son, who sat beside him in the back seat, survived without a scratch. So did the driver and her child.
My neighbour told me that since that day, she lives differently. She buys the expensive champagne. She eats the special cake. She travels. Because she knows how fast everything can change.
It can all shift in one ordinary moment.
Someone asked me recently why I work with grief and loss. She said she finds it confronting.
I told her:
“What I care about most is aliveness. Living with more love, more joy, more laughter, more beauty. Sorrow is a gateway to all of that.”
Grief is everywhere. It shapes us, often without our knowing. When we tend to our hearts - when we let sorrow move through - we make space for more of what we truly want.
I made this for you.
May you have more of what your heart is longing for.
May you live the life you ache to feel.
Held retreat update :: Bali, 21-26 June, 2026
A gentle reminder: sometimes “maybe later” never arrives. Waiting can be risky.
If you’re longing for more aliveness, love, joy, strength and beauty - even though the retreat is still eight months away, I promise that when you say yes to yourself now, life starts to rearrange itself.
We cast spells with our choices.
When we choose love, life meets us there.
It always does.
If you’re new here, welcome. This space is where I write about love, loss, beauty and the tender art of being human. It’s where I try to make sense of what it means to live with an open heart in a world that keeps breaking.
I believe our grief deserves reverence - not fixing, not rushing - but honouring. When we tend to it with care, it transforms us. It brings us back to life. It brings us home to who we truly are.
If this speaks to you, I’d love you to stay connected. Subscribe to receive future letters, stories, and invitations to gatherings where we remember how to turn our sorrow into something sacred.
P.S. May you keep choosing what matters, even when it hurts. That’s how we stay alive to this wild, beautiful life.