When you reach your late thirties and early forties, the nature of wedding season changes. In your twenties, weddings are a flurry of foundational milestones—matchy-matchy bridesmaids dresses, cheap champagne, and friends entering the grand experiment of adulthood together. At 41 and 37, respectively, Greg and I are navigating an entirely different chapter of matrimony. We are in the phase of life where the invitations on the fridge represent something more seasoned. Some of our peers are marrying and forming beautifully complex blended families; others are walking down the aisle for a second time, carrying the hard-won wisdom of previous chapters.

We belong to both categories. We are co-parenting a blended family of our own, balancing the daily chaos of his-and-hers lives stitched together in Maryland. So, when Greg was asked to stand as a groomsman for his longtime friend’s wedding in Key Largo, we packed our bags for a weekend in South Florida.

If You Give a Girl a Wedding Invitation

If you are a woman of a certain age, attending a wedding as a “plus-one” carries an unspoken social tax. You are entering a ecosystem of childhood friends, former roommates, and people who all share deep, decades-long inside jokes. If your partner happens to be in the wedding party, that tax is doubled.

There’s a tax for the other partner, too. The domino effect of taking your woman to a wedding is universal.

It goes exactly like this:

If you take your girl to a wedding, she’s going to ask for a spicy margarita. When you give her the margarita, she’s going to start two-stepping and gazing into your eyes. When she starts two-stepping and gazing into your eyes, she’s going to start talking about “at our wedding…”

Since Greg was a groomsman, he was whisked away early for duties, photos, and the pre-ceremony tasks of the bridal party. I, on the other hand, was left to navigate the cocktail hour at the Key Largo Lighthouse solo. Although Greg is also an an introvert, he’s the guy who can make friends with a fire hydrant. I am firmly the more introverted one of our duo. As the cocktail hour went on, my phone lit up with a barrage of texts from him.

“Are you okay?” “Do you need anything?” “You doing alright out there?” “Don’t be afraid to mingle.”

I finally had to hit him with a gentle reminder: Babe, I am just fine by myself. In fact, I would actively appreciate not making too much small talk right now.

Instead of forcing awkward conversations about the weather or how I knew the groom, I grabbed a spicy margarita—one of my favorites—and let the ambiance wash over me. I stood on the edge of the crowd, catching a little vibe, doing a subtle bop and a two-step to the music. It foreshadowed my entire evening. Once the reception started, I practically lived on the dance floor.

Eventually, the universe took pity on my introversion. Two of Greg’s friends spotted me and did what extroverts do best—they “rescued” me. Instead of the standard, superficial wedding pleasantries, we slid into genuine conversation. By the time the after-party rolled around, I was fully integrated into the fold, chatting it up with the matron of honor, hearing her love story, and admiring her ring.

Right in front of Greg, the inevitable question was launched: “So, when is it your turn?”

I looked at Greg and laughed. Thankfully, this wasn’t our first rodeo, nor was it the first time we’ve discussed our own nuptials. Given our lives, our history, and our maturity, we already know our future celebration won’t be traditional in the least bit. However, seeing him all gussied up in his groomsman fit, walking down that aisle near where I was sitting? I couldn’t help but get googly-eyed. I blew him a kiss, he blew one back, and the “at our wedding” brainstorming sessions were officially greenlit for the rest of the trip.

The Future is Right Behind You

The wedding itself was breathtaking. The venue took over a gorgeous section of the Key Largo Lighthouse, offering an uninterrupted, panoramic view of the bay. The couple even scored a vintage VW bus that had been converted into a photo booth for the evening. The food included seasonal veggies, island rice, perfectly seasoned beef with chimichurri, and a deliciously prepared snapper. We danced the night away under the stars.

The day after the wedding, the celebration continued with a laid-back pool party for the guests. Greg and I are currently on a content creation journey, trying to document our lives and our love, but our biggest challenge has consistently been a beautiful flaw. We get so caught up in the moment, so deeply present in our conversations, that we entirely forget to pull the camera out.

It was during one of these unrecorded, beautifully present moments at the pool that the trajectory of our weekend shifted. I noticed one of the wedding guests lounge-side, their arm adorned with a striking collection of Adinkra symbols.

For me, body art has always carried an immense spiritual weight. I didn’t get my first tattoo until I was 25. Unlike my peers who had collections of ink by their early twenties, I spent years bound by strict religious beliefs that taught me tattoos were “wrong.” Beyond the dogma, I struggled with the gravity of permanence. What could I possibly want on my body forever? Eventually, I landed on the Onyankopon Adom Nti Biribiara Beye Yie symbol (meaning “By God’s grace, all will be well”). I got it on my ankle. It hurt like hell, and to make matters worse, the artist freehanded it and completely messed it up. I swore off ink forever.

Growth changes you, however. Spontaneity changes you. Earlier this year, over 4/20 weekend, Greg and I went to a block party at my favorite dispensary. They were offering free flash tattoos. On a whim, we threw caution to the wind and got our first set of matching tattoos—little mushrooms. I fell in love with how freeing it felt to make a sudden, un-overthought decision with him.

Staring at that guest’s Adinkra tattoos by the pool, I turned to Greg. “I want another symbol,” I told him. “Most importantly, I want a Sankofa.”

Without skipping a beat, Greg looked at me and said he’d be open to a Sankofa tattoo, too. Within an hour of leaving the pool party, I was sitting in a chair.

We chose the version of the sankofa symbol with the bird reaching backward to retrieve the egg from its spine. Because body real estate is a factor for a tattoo lover, Greg had his placed on his bicep, surrounded by his existing ink—including an amazing Darth Vader forearm piece. (The irony is not lost on me that Greg has a massive Star Wars tattoo, while I, the certified, full-blown Disney historian and nerd, still have zero Disney ink.) My nerves were shot, so I volunteered to go first just to get it out of the way. I sat there wishing I had my headphones, but content to just be in the space.

As we took turns in the chair, we ended up in one of those incredibly rich conversations with our tattoo artist that could never be content for public consumption. We talked about life, the realities of raising our children, Disney, and what it truly means to be a real grown-up.

Getting those Sankofas in Key Largo felt aligned. We spent so much of this trip talking about our future—not just what we have planned for our impending nuptials, but what we want the marriage to look and feel like. We are spiritual people. We recognize our place in carrying out the uncompleted work our ancestors left for us to do. We are building a legacy, while also laughing and collectively whispering to them, “Okay ancestors, don’t forget about your precious babies down here. Send help!”

Key Largo Reality Checks

Outside of the wedding bubble, Greg and I reached a mutual consensus about Key Largo. It’s not necessarily our vibe.

Don’t get me wrong, Key Largo has a very specific, laid-back, “Keys-style” energy. It is beautiful, quiet, and absolutely the place you go if you want gorgeous waterfront views, fresh seafood, and a schedule completely devoid of plans. It’s an ideal honeymoon spot or a sanctuary for retirees. But for millennials who still like to actually hang out, have a little pace, and experience some cultural density? It’s a bit too relaxed. There is no business to be attended to down there. We realized that Key West is much more our speed. Had we known the exact tempo of Key Largo beforehand, we would have planned a day trip south.

However, what Key Largo lacked in nightlife, it more than made up for in food gems.

The night before the wedding, we had dinner at The Fish House, a local staple proudly sporting a massive Guy Fieri billboard out front to commemorate its feature on Diners, Drive-Ins and Dives. We both ordered the Mahi Mahi Matacumbe—baked with tomatoes, capers, shallots, fresh basil, and olive oil—and honestly, we haven’t stopped talking about it since.

The morning of the wedding, we decided to order breakfast in from Mrs. Mac’s Kitchen. Now, when you are a few hours away from slipping into a form-fitting wedding dress, the logical choice is a light fruit cup. I chose violence instead. I ordered a towering stack of French toast, alongside cheddar grits and home fries. Greg got a hearty breakfast casserole. Was it the smartest choice for my silhouette? Absolutely not. Did we regret it as we washed it down with complimentary mimosas? Not for a single second.

As a Maryland resident, I was also deeply tickled by the regional policy differences. In Maryland, alcohol laws are rigid. You certainly cannot order booze via a third-party delivery app. In Florida, DoorDash dropped off our mimosas, and the driver didn’t even bother to ask for my ID.

Our culinary tour didn’t begin or end there. Over the course of the weekend, we kicked off the trip with brunch and mimosas at Chocolada, grabbed seafood from Hobo’s Cafe, and ate slices of authentic Key Lime pie from Mrs. Mac’s. Even though we couldn’t find Black-owned in Key Largo, we were still determined to taste everything we could.

Calling My Energy Back in Lauderhill

On Monday, we packed up our rented Jeep to head north toward the airport in Fort Lauderdale, turning the drive into a glorious, true-to-us road trip. We made “very country” pit stops along the way: a local general store in Key Largo for road snacks, and a random gas station in Hialeah for a tub of warm boiled peanuts.

Long car rides are where Greg and I thrive. Stripped of the distractions of work and home, our conversations naturally deepen. As we drove, the playful wedding banter melted into profound discussions about our legacy together. We talked about our strong desires to honor our families, but also the conscious choice to be the cycle-breakers and the change that both of our families need to see.

We reached Hollywood and headed toward Block 40 Food Hall. We had originally planned to grab bowls from My Favorite Spot, but they are closed on Mondays. We pivoted to delicious pizza from Pepe and Rony. After our late lunch, we learned that our flight was delayed, so we transitioned into my old stomping grounds.

I lived a past chapter of my life in South Florida, and returning to a place you used to inhabit always triggers a strange internal calibration. It hadn’t been long enough for me to forget the geography of the neighborhoods, and for the most part, everything looked exactly the same. We drove to Lauderhill, specifically targeting a little strip mall across the street from the Lauderhill Mall. This specific strip is a cultural hub, home to Golden Krust, Localicious Creamery (a phenomenal Black-owned spot where we indulged in heaping scoops of ice cream), and Bedessee East-West Indian Food.

Bedessee was a place I used to frequent often. It’s a classic Caribbean convenience store where you can find harder-to-source ingredients at a low price—like the $2.99 bag of ground cardamom I love to sprinkle into my morning coffee. Bedessee is also a dual reality. One side is a grocery store. The other side is a botanica, stocked with spiritual items, oils, books, and candles.

Walking through those aisles with Greg by my side, a wave of clarity hit me. This store was a physical landmark of a past version of myself. Standing there, holding my cardamom, I realized that I had actively, intentionally manifested myself out of Florida. I had envisioned the life I wanted back in Maryland, and I had built it. Now, I was standing in my past, but entirely secure in my present, accompanied by the partner I had built that new life with.

It felt like a profound closing of a circle. Right there in the middle of the strip mall, I felt spiritually compelled to call my energy back from that place. I gathered up whatever pieces of myself I had left behind in those old Florida years, reclaimed them, and stepped back out into the sun.

The Travel Villain and the Final Pivot

Every great travel story requires a late-stage antagonist. Enter: our flight home.

While we were in Lauderhill, I texted my mom and sister about the delay. My sister, a seasoned realist, took one look at the Baltimore radar and texted back: “They’re going to cancel that. It’s the weather up here.”

She was right. After another delay once we arrived at the airport, the delay shifted into a full-blown cancellation.

Greg and I were not happy. A cancelled flight is an unexpected financial pivot. It meant paying for a last-minute hotel, unexpected meals, and rearranging our work-from-home schedules for the following day. We sat in the airport terminal, eating Pollo Tropical and weighing our options.

If this trip taught us anything, it’s that we are a team that can pivot mostly well. Instead of letting the airport floor become our bedroom, we took action. I managed to hunt down an affordable, surprisingly clean, last-minute accommodation nearby that even threw in free breakfast (which we fully slept through the next morning) and hot coffee.

Looking back on the weekend, the canceled flight was almost a necessary lesson. It forced us to pause before rushing back to the demands of our blended household in Maryland. It gave us the reminder that whatever our own untraditional future holds, we’re always exactly where we’re supposed to be.