12/17/2025
The weekend didn’t feel like a normal weekend. It felt like stepping into a little pocket of time where everything mattered more—where even the ordinary parts (packing, traveling, getting dressed, checking your phone for directions) carried that electric sense that something big was waiting on the other side.
Getting ready to go had that familiar wedding-weekend rhythm: outfits laid out, changed, laid out again. The little panic about forgetting something important, even though you’ve checked the list twice. Shoes you swear you’ll wear all night. Hair decisions. Makeup decisions. The tiny details that somehow feel like they’re part of the story, too—because they are. They’re the build-up. The before.
And underneath all that normal movement was the heavier part that doesn’t announce itself with noise: the people we wished could’ve been there. Family members who couldn’t make the trip, couldn’t be in the room, couldn’t take their place in the photos. That quiet awareness has a way of turning happy moments into something deeper—not less joyful, just more layered. Like love with a shadow behind it, reminding you to pay attention. To remember on purpose.
The travel out felt like a gradual shift from everyday life into celebration—miles passing, time stretching, anticipation growing. You know how it is when you’re headed somewhere meaningful: your brain keeps jumping ahead to the moment everyone finally sees each other, to the music, to the first look, to the “I do.” Even if you try to stay present, part of you is already there.
And then we arrived in Monterey.
We arrived with that feeling of stepping into a new atmosphere. Monterey had that wedding-weekend energy humming under everything—people coming in and out, dressed a little nicer than usual, smiles that were half excitement and half exhaustion. It felt like everyone was orbiting the same event like planets around a sun. Even the air felt different, like the whole town was holding a secret and we’d just joined the group who knew it.
There’s always that strange moment before a ceremony where time behaves differently. It speeds up and slows down at the same time. One minute you’re adjusting an earring or smoothing a wrinkle, and the next minute you’re sitting down and everything is quiet. The world narrows to a room, an aisle, a few breaths.
Then it began.
Valeria’s dad walked her down the aisle to “Hallelujah,” and it was the kind of moment that changes the air in a room. People don’t just watch that—they feel it. “Hallelujah” isn’t background music. It’s a song that reaches into you, and paired with that walk, it made everything feel sacred. The kind of sacred that doesn’t need big speeches. It just exists, and everyone recognizes it at once.
When Valeria came into view, it was like everything sharpened. People stopped shifting in their seats. Faces softened. And when her dad took her down that aisle, it felt bigger than tradition—it felt like family in motion. Like love doing what it does best: showing up in the most important moments and refusing to be anything less than real.
And then they were married.
And when they walked out as Mr. and Mrs. Clayton, the whole room exhaled and erupted into that bright, relieved joy that only happens after the vows are done and the happy part is officially allowed to be loud.
Clayton kept stepping on her dress.
Not in a dramatic way—just in that perfectly human, funny, adorable way that made everyone laugh because it was so them. Like the night was already letting us know: this isn’t going to be stiff or overly polished. This is going to be beautiful and real and full of little moments you’ll love even more than the perfectly posed ones.
Then came their first dance.
Their first dance was to Adele’s “Lovesong,” and it honestly felt like the whole room disappeared except for them.
That’s the only way to say it. Like everything else blurred into soft edges and the only thing in focus was the two of them—close, calm, completely wrapped up in each other. The song held the moment like a ribbon, and they moved like they had all the time in the world.
And then—like the night wasn’t content with being merely romantic—there were butterflies.
Butterflies exploding out of cannons, filling the air with white wings until it looked like it was snowing. It was fabulous. Surreal. Cinematic in a way that didn’t feel staged—it felt like a fairytale happened to land on the dance floor. People gasped and laughed and stared upward like kids, and for a moment you could feel the entire room united in one thought: This is magic.
And somehow, it wasn’t just for them. It drifted into all of us. Butterflies landing in hair, catching in curls, clinging to shoulders like tiny little reminders that we were witnessing something rare.
Then came the moment that cracked everyone open.
Valeria’s dad stepped in and took her hand for a dance to “You’ll Be in My Heart”—that song that hits you right in the chest the second it starts, the one that feels like a Disney gut-punch in the most beautiful way. Everyone was crying. Not polite little tears—real ones. The kind that blur the room and make you press your lips together because you don’t want to make noise and you also can’t stop it.
And when he hugged her—when he held her and cried—fireworks shot out.
Fireworks.
As if the universe itself insisted that the moment needed punctuation, needed light and sound to match the size of what was happening. It wasn’t just emotional. It was unforgettable. One of those scenes you know you’ll be able to replay in your head years from now, and it will still make your throat tighten.
After that, Clayton danced with his mom—my Aunt Connie—to “What A Wonderful World” sung by Willie Nelson.
It was tender and soft in a way that settled the room after all the big emotion, like everyone needed a breath. It didn’t feel like a performance. It felt like love that’s steady. Love that has history. Love that doesn’t ask for attention, but holds it anyway.
That dance had its own kind of gravity—quiet and warm. The kind of moment that makes you think about generations. About all the hands that held each other before this night existed. About how weddings aren’t just about two people; they’re about every person who helped shape them into who they are.
And then the dance floor opened up, and the whole night shifted into celebration.
People hugged—real hugs, the kind that last a little longer than usual because no one’s in a hurry to let go. People laughed. People grabbed each other’s hands like, Come on—this is happening. We’re doing this. And we all had butterflies in our hair, like the night had literally sprinkled joy onto everyone and decided it should stay awhile.
Somewhere in there, we ate—though I couldn’t tell you the exact timing if you paid me, because by that point the fancy drinks were going down smooth and time had become more of a suggestion than a structure.
But the food? The food was exquisite and exotic—bold, unexpected, unforgettable. Not the kind of wedding meal you politely finish and forget. The kind you keep talking about because it felt curated, like it had personality.
And the drinks were phenomenal—high class, the kind of cocktails that make you feel like you’re holding something elegant and mischievous at the same time.
My drink actually smoked from dry ice.
It showed up like it belonged in a movie scene—curling fog over the rim, dramatic and gorgeous—and it tasted smoky, too. Not me sipping on a smoking dry-ice cocktail like I’m in a movie. 🌫️🍸😂
That was the Monterey night vibe by then: romance and wonder and laughter all braided together. The kind of atmosphere where you keep thinking, I can’t believe this is real, and then you look around and realize everyone else is thinking the same thing.
And then we danced the night away.
Not “a few songs.” Not “we made an appearance.” We danced—the kind of dancing where your body forgets to be self-conscious because the joy is bigger than that. The kind where you lose track of time, lose track of the order of events, lose track of how many times you’ve said, “This is the best part,” because the best part keeps happening again and again.
And then—because this night apparently came with plot twists—there was the bouquet.
I caught it.
One second it was flying, the next second it was in my hands, and the room was cheering and screaming and laughing like the whole night had collectively decided that was the perfect ending. It was chaos and sparkle and shock in one tiny instant—me holding flowers like, Wait… ME? 💐😂✨
By the end, what stayed with me wasn’t only the beauty—though there was plenty of that. It was the feeling.
That love showed up in a hundred different forms: a father walking his daughter down the aisle to “Hallelujah,” a couple disappearing into their own world during Adele, butterflies turning air into snowfall, a dad and daughter holding on to each other like time stood still, fireworks bursting at the exact moment emotions overflowed, a mother and son swaying to “What A Wonderful World,” everyone hugging like they meant it, and butterflies caught in our hair like proof we were there.
It was magical.
And it was real.
And it’s the kind of weekend you don’t just remember—you carry it.
I also just want to say thank you to my family for making it possible for us to be there at all—especially my Aunt Connie. I don’t take that for granted. It meant the world to be able to show up, be present, and soak in every second of it.
