I was never going to get remarried

The intimate art of marrying in your 50s

Getting married at 52 comes with a set of permissions I didn’t know I was allowed to give myself when I married at 26.

Our photographer told us it would take up to eight weeks to receive our wedding photos. He wasn’t kidding.

By the time the gallery finally landed in my inbox, we were in the middle of travel and life and everything that keeps you moving forward. We skimmed them, smiled, and kept going.

But recently, we slowed down long enough to actually sit with them.

Every image. Every moment.

And it’s been unexpectedly emotional to relive it all.

If you’ve been here since December, you read about our wedding in real time, five days after we said I do, written from a quiet British West Indies island on our honeymoon. This is the fuller story now, four months later, with the photos in hand and the reflection I didn’t yet have.

A more intimate look at the moments that made the day what it was.

Getting remarried after losing my late husband three years ago wasn’t something I ever contemplated for myself. That is until I met Dave.

Our initial connection, albeit via text, felt like the universe was conspiring toward something neither of us thought possible.

At 58 Dave had become known as the forever bachelor. He didn’t plan for that. It’s just how life took shape. After too many bad endings, he turned his attention to faith, family, friends, his career. He is truly the best friend to many, a devoted godfather to the fortunate few and the greatest brother and son a family could ask for. Finding this rare gem, my unicorn, seemed unimaginable.

A strong Irish Catholic faith comes first in his world which made marriage profoundly significant for him. Knowing this about him makes me love him all the more and gave me a new perspective on shifting my own thoughts about remarrying.

But to be honest, when he proposed, the idea of planning a wedding was paralyzing. My social conditioning said: you don’t do this again. Not with a big wedding. Not when you’ve been married before. But how could I deny that to my beloved fiancé who waited 58 years.

And celebrating felt like something we both earned.

We didn’t want a wedding built on tradition. We wanted one built on intention.

Because Dave had never been married, our guest list leaned heavily toward his friends and family. People who had waited a lifetime to witness this moment. The love in that space was palpable. Collective. Earned.

A balance of simplicity and elegance. Nothing extra. Nothing missing.

The shamrock, of course, became the cornerstone of every detail. A nod to Dave’s Notre Dame roots and symbolic of faith, love and hope. Something we have built into our marriage manifesto.

When we unraveled the expected and rebuilt the framework of what it looks like to get remarried, the list of no’s was long. Every decision ran through the same filter. And every time we asked it, we knew.

So there was no groom’s dinner. Instead, a casual meet and greet at an Irish pub. Another nod to Notre Dame, with lots of Guinness shared among his former college friends and teammates.

There was no bridal party. No choreography. No obligations disguised as tradition.

Instead, Elise, my beautiful daughter, stood as our honoree. My bonus daughter, Bre, shared a reading. My late husband’s childhood best friend walked me down the aisle. And our two best friends delivered a ceremony written entirely by us. Words chosen carefully. Honestly. Tenderly.

Looking back, most of our attention was placed on our vows. Every word of the ceremony came from the heart. Every word written by us, with the exception of our officiant who went off script in the best way.

When it came time to say I do, Dave said it six times.

Six.

No hesitation. No pause. Just certainty spilling over.

There was not a dry eye in sight.

I did not wear white. I wore navy, Dave’s favorite color, in a ball gown that made me feel like a modern day Grace Kelly.

Fully myself.

I was adorned in a ridiculous amount of borrowed jewels from dear friends, including a repurposed gem originally gifted to me by my late husband George. My something old, new, and borrowed all at once.

There was no limo. We took a beach Moke instead. Ridiculously fun. Wildly us. And the source of epic photos.

The reception was intimate and food forward, held in a courtyard that felt like being wrapped inside an orchid filled New Orleans venue, right in the heart of downtown Naples. Candlelight. Conversation. Presence.

There was no dancing, with the exception of one couple who had their own special moment at the end of the night. One I will always remember, and they may not.

But there was extraordinary music. A pianist and a saxophonist filling the space with warmth and soul.

There were impromptu speeches. The kind you can’t script. The kind that leave everyone in tears, from laughter and from joy.

And honestly something I hadn’t considered at all. So when the microphone began to pass, it was the best surprise of the night.

There was no cake. Instead, we served warm mini donuts. Dave’s favorite. Nostalgic. Joyfully unfussy.

This was not a wedding designed to impress. It was a wedding designed to reflect.

Perfectly imperfect. Deeply intentional. Exactly us.

Always EDITing,
Mrs. Leslie Legus

P.S. Four months later, we laugh that we’re past the warranty period.

Next EDIT: more about the borrowed emerald ring — and the strange, quiet life it’s lived.

One more… I’ll never tire seeing this.