What if you made a conscious decision for your wedding — right now, in this very moment — to simply have fun? To let go of all the little worries, the endless checklists, the “should” and “musts” weighing you down, and just be fully present?

I was knee-deep in a vendor contract

Highlighter in hand, when the thought hit me like a rogue wave: What if we just… stopped? Not the planning—the caring. I mean the endless spiraling and worrying about “Will this look right in photos?” and “What if the salmon’s overcooked?” and ‘What if a vender doesn’t show up?” All of it. What if the only goal was to feel something real? What If Fun Was the Only Plan?

So, we did.

We tore up the script and wrote a new one in crayon on the back of a takeout menu—so what. The venue became a house we rented in the Outer Banks through Twiddy, oceanfront.  The dress code: whatever makes you feel like the best version of yourself when you’re at the beach. The timeline: sunset, food, dancing, repeat until the stars get bored.

Imagine it

You’re surrounded by the people you love most, in a place that makes your heart light up. The air is warm, the music is just right, the laughter flows easily. There’s no pressure to perform, no need to impress anyone, no strict rules other than enjoying yourselves. You’re not thinking about timelines, logistics, or Instagram-worthy shots. You’re thinking about connection, about moments that feel real and alive.

Our forecast called for scattered showers. We got a deluge. By noon the gravel drive to the beach house had turned into a shallow river, and my cousin’s pickup fishtailed twice before sliding to a stop. I watched from the doorway; veil plastered to my forehead and felt the last thread of control snap like a cheap hair tie. Just then, I remembered. We had no backup. No tent. No Plan B. We had forty-three people, three dogs, and a cooler of beer someone’s dad swore was “for emergencies.” That was the whole contingency.

The officiant arrived soaked

Clutching a plastic grocery bag over his head like a sad halo. “I left the nice folder at home,” he said, pulling out a crumpled printout that looked like it had been through the wash. His skin soaked. We shrugged. Good enough.

Inside the beach house

The air smelled of wet hay and citronella. My fiancé handed me a towel and a grin. “Ready to ruin your dress?” he asked. I was barefoot before they finished the sentence. We didn’t wait for the rain to ease. We just started. Guests crowded beneath the staircase, shoulders touching, boots squelching. My dad tuned his guitar with fingers that shook from cold, not nerves. The first chord came out sour; he laughed, retuned, tried again. Nobody minded.

The vows were short

Mine ended with “I’ll choose you even when the power’s out and the dog eats the cake.” His ended with a sneeze. We kissed as thunder rolled overhead, like it was clapping just for us. Dinner was whatever fit on paper plates. We had a sit down, family style lasagna, coleslaw and a sheet cake from the grocery store. We ate, forks scraping tin, kids licking frosting off their elbows.

When the sky finally opened

And the rain stopped, the silence felt loud. Steam rose off the sand. My dad kicked the patio doors wide and the light poured in sideways, gold and thick. The dogs shook themselves like punctuation marks and that’s when the music started. We had a DJ, not a playlist—my brother’s phone pumped through the house speakers, volume maxed, playing everywhere including the pool side deck. The first song was one we’d argued over for weeks. Hearing it echo off the fence felt like the argument never happened.

We danced on slippery floorboards

And concrete by the pool. My aunt spun me until I was dizzy. My husband slow danced with the flower girl who kept stepping on his toes. At some point the power flickered out for good. Candles appeared and the beach house turned into a low hanging constellation. I remember slipping outside for air and finding my mom on the porch, shoes in hand, staring at the sky like she’d never seen stars before. “You okay?” I asked. She nodded, eyes wet. “I was so worried about the weather,” she said. “Turns out it was the best part.”

People still talk about the thunderstorm. Not because it ruined anything—because it didn’t. Because we let it happen and kept going anyway. Because the day belonged to the weather, to the people, to the dogs, to the candles and half eaten cake. It belonged to everything except a concept that it had to be perfect. Brian and I never felt that way. Not once. What If Fun Was the Only Plan, and that’s how we rolled.

If you’re sitting there right now, refreshing the forecast for the hundredth time, close the tab. The sky will do what it wants too. Your job is simpler: show up, stay loose, love hard. The rest is just noise. We got married in a thunderstorm. It was perfect.

Let go of all the little worries, the endless checklists, the “should” and “musts” that weigh you down and just be fully present. Fun Should be the Only Plan.

People still ask if we regret not having the “real” wedding. I tell them the truth: the real one showed up uninvited, wearing mud and mercy, and stayed long after the last guest drove away. The wedding photos are proof of that.

If you’re tangled in tulle and timelines right now, try this: pick one thing you’re scared to lose and let it go. The floral arch. The string quartet. The fear that someone might leave hungry or be bored. Watch what rushes in to fill the space. It’ll probably be louder, messier, and truer than anything you could pay for. Love you.