On a cloudless, sixty-degree November day filled with golden light, I married the man that has been my partner and best friend for the past four years. We wed on an historic farm with rust-colored chickens roaming free and the last red and yellow leaves of autumn still clinging to the trees.

Only our closest friends and family attended, less than fifty people in all. The ceremony was intimate and emotional, performed by my brother. We wrote our own vows.

The rest of the evening was spent enjoying hors d’oeuvres and cocktails, a four-course menu straight from the farm with wine pairings, and fabulous cake from our favorite gluten-free bakery.

We worked very hard to ensure that the whole event, down to the smallest detail, was representative of us. We wanted to honor who we each are and the relationship that we have together, and we wanted to share those things in a very special way with the people who mean the most to us.

And I feel that we did just that.

Our guests, however, made the evening truly remarkable. We filled that room with the best people we know, people from many different parts of our life, wonderful individually for a myriad of reasons. It was amazing to see them all together, eating and talking and laughing with open hearts. The love that night was like a fluid presence, flowing through everyone and carrying the mood. Every look held a depth of knowing, every touch lingered, each embrace was genuine and firm.

At the end of the night, when it was just the two of us, we marveled at how honestly good the people in our life are and how beautiful the celebration was. The whole day was more than either of us could have hoped for, and, after a year of planning, it was extremely satisfying.

It feels good to be married. Grounding. Stabilizing. Like everything from here on out is life.