reflections
I never thought this time would come so soon. All my life, I’d watched brides around me - cousins, friends, even strangers - wrapped in the same kind of excitement I now carry. And every time, I wondered how it must feel to stand at that turning point, where one life gently folds into another. Now that I’m here, I finally understand.
It’s a strange place to be. The wedding isn’t here yet, but its close enough to feel real. My room is half-packed. There are lists everywhere - things to buy, things to remember, things I’ve already forgotten. People keep saying how lucky I am, how beautiful the next chapter will be and I nod, smiling, because I am happy. But behind that happiness, there’s a quiet hum of something deeper - something I can’t quite name.
Every small moment suddenly feels like a piece of home I’m tucking into my heart. My mother’s voice calling from the kitchen. My brother’s loud laughter echoing through the hallway. My sister sprawled on the bed beside me, pretending not to care that I’ll be leaving soon. Even the arguments feel different now, softer somehow. Every sound, every scent, every ordinary thing feels like it’s turning into memory.
It’s an emotional blur, this time between being a daughter at home and a wife-in-waiting. I’m living in both worlds at once - one foot still planted in the comfort of the old, the other inching toward something new. There’s excitement, yes, real, bright, steady excitement. I think about what’s ahead - about building a home with him, about laughter over breakfast and evenings spent side by side. It feels warm, hopeful, like the life I’ve always imagined for myself.
But there’s also this ache that sits behind the joy. It sneaks up in small moments: when my mother folds my clothes neatly and lingers a second longer on each one; when my sister helps me pack, but her jokes trail off mid-sentence; when my father asks logistical questions - guest lists, expenses, delivery times - with a steadiness that hides how he really feels. The silence between us all has changed. It’s full of love, but also of unspoken goodbyes.
At night, I find myself walking around the house, touching things as if I’m trying to memorise them. The wall where we once hung family photos. The corner of the kitchen that always smelled like cardamom and tea. My own room, messy, familiar, safe. The shelves are emptier now, the drawers lighter. The air feels different, as though it already knows I’m leaving.
I keep thinking about my mother the most. She tries not to show it, but I can see the emotions flicker across her face when she looks at me. She keeps herself busy - organising, cooking, calling people - but sometimes, she goes quiet mid-task, as if her heart has paused for a moment. She doesn’t say it, but I know she’s preparing herself, too. She’s letting go slowly, piece by piece.
My siblings act normal. They tease me, laugh and pretend nothing’s changing. But I see the small gestures. My brother offering to drive me somewhere without rolling his eyes. My sister staying up later than usual, scrolling beside me in comfortable silence. They think I don’t notice, but I do. They’re saying their own silent goodbyes in small, familiar ways.
And then there’s him - the reason all of this exists in the first place. The thought of him brings calm. When everything feels heavy, I think of the life waiting ahead: shared laughter, inside jokes, routines that will someday feel like home. I think of learning together, making mistakes together, figuring out what partnership truly means. That thought grounds me. It makes the fear easier to carry.
Still, I can’t help feeling the weight of new responsibilities waiting for me. I think about the kind of wife I want to be. The kind of home I’ll help build. The kind of balance I’ll need to find between who I’ve always been and who I’m becoming. It’s not fear that fills me, but an awareness that life is about to change in ways I can’t fully predict.
Sometimes I wish I could pause this in-between, stay a little longer in the comfort of this house, with these people who built me. But growing up doesn’t come with pause buttons. It arrives softly, in the middle of an ordinary day and before you know it, you’re packing and preparing for the biggest change of your life.
Some nights, when everyone’s asleep, I sit in my room and feel everything all at once - the excitement, the love, the nostalgia, the gratitude. I think about how much I’ve been loved and how that love will travel with me into my new life. I think about how every laugh shared here, every fight, every small act of care will stay with me, tucked safely inside me like invisible keepsakes.
I realise now that growing up doesn’t mean leaving things behind: it means carrying them forward - my mother’s warmth, my siblings’ laughter, my father’s strength - they’re all coming with me. They’ve built the person I am. And no matter where I go, they’ll still be here, in every part of me.
I’ve always imagined what this stage of life would feel like, but I never knew it would hold so many layers - its joy and longing intertwined, its peace and restlessness living side by side. It’s laughter in the middle of tears and tears in the middle of laughter. It’s learning that love can hurt and still be beautiful.
So I’m standing here, in the middle of everything, holding my family, my memories, my dreams and my future all at once. My heart feels full and fragile, but steady. Life is changing and so am I.
The writer is a sub-editor at You! desk. Editor’s note: I wish my girl a very happy married life.
