I’ve always loved Katherine Heigl movies. 27 Dresses being one of my favorites—probably because I see pieces of myself in it. The title says it all: she’s been a bridesmaid twenty-seven times and never the bride. A walking symbol of the wait.
Funny enough, I’ve either been the single friend or worse—the one with the emotionally unavailable (or downright disrespectful) boyfriend in a group of committed or married friends. Like Sheila in Why Did I Get Married? Le struggle.
But here’s the thing: I’ve never felt envy. I’ve always felt joy when my friends get engaged or married. And I mean real joy. Because I’ve learned to reframe it—if like attracts like, and I stay close enough, maybe I’ll get struck by that same lightning bolt too.
But here’s what I’ve been sitting with: the friends and relatives I know who are happily married—and that’s the keyword, happily—were prepared for it. There was a shift, a readiness, a spiritual alignment, and most importantly, a feeling that they deserved that title and the treatment that came with it. It reminded me of stories whispered into my ear by the elders in my life. Ruth, whose preparation led her to Boaz. Hannah, whose waiting was sacred. These weren’t just Bible stories. They were blueprints. Comfort. Solace.
It made me realize: maybe I’m not married yet because, deep down, I didn’t believe I deserved it.
Something my sister’s dad said to me not too long ago that has stuck with me: “You will be a wife the day you look in the mirror and see yourself as one. You are a wife before a man ever puts a ring on your finger.”
What Does It Mean to Be a Wife?
I used to think I wasn’t wife material.
Not because I lacked kindness, loyalty, or love—but because I didn’t think I looked the part. I wasn’t perfect enough. I didn’t have the flawless image, the soft voice, or the rom-com storyline.
I’m expressive. I like to pick people’s brains and discuss topics for mental expansion—like who’s actually the most powerful Marvel character or how politics and economics intertwine. I’m far from demure and sultry. I’m clumsy and energetic: walking with intention to ensure I don’t trip and dancing in my living room at 1am when I can’t sleep.
I’m from East Texas: So I like to say witty remarks, laugh loud, and walk around barefoot.
I didn’t fit the aesthetic I’d absorbed from TV shows and highlight reels.
But I’ve come to understand—that wasn’t the truth.
That was a caricature. A polished performance of wifehood written for the screen, not for real life.
Being a wife isn’t about performing perfection.
It’s about showing up. It’s about knowing your value, holding space for love, growth, and truth. It’s about becoming someone who can give and receive deeply—without losing herself.
And I’ve seen real examples of that all my life.
My grandmother was a semi-traditional wife. She worked, shopped, birthed babies, and evangelized in the church—and when she and my grandfather built financial stability through real estate, she retired and stayed home (still shopping, of course—iconic).
My mom has been a wife twice—no shade if you’re reading this, LOL—but she’s a modern wife. Independent. Love for her was expressed through acts of service, not necessarily big romantic gestures. She believed in getting her own and pouring into her kids.
And then there’s my great aunt, Dr. Sharon Ross—probably my favorite example. She’s what I call a multidimensional wife. Funny enough, she’s my uncle’s second wife and he’s her second husband—a testament that sometimes you don’t get it right on the first try. In retirement, she and my Uncle Robbie still travel together—keeping one another young in mind, body, and spirit. He watches her give lectures and teach seminars—always supportive. They laugh, cook, and host family gatherings together. They love out loud.
It took me years to see myself through that lens, but I finally recognize the kind of wife I am.
So…What Kind of Wife Am I?
I’m a multidimensional wife too.
I’m self-reliant, but I love caring for my people. I’m the friend you visit and end up getting fed, listened to, hyped up, and sent home with a to-go plate. I give inspiration, warmth, and maybe a little tough love if needed. I sit with friends and patiently help them turn the dreams in their heads into plans on paper—a business, a book, a next step.
I’m a big sister. Thanks to my little brother and sister I have now attended high school three times, and I’m about to attend college for the third, LOL. I didn’t see myself as a mentor for entry into adulthood, but those two pulled it out of me.
I’m quirky—a freethinker and a down-to-earth, carefree spirit. A professional who can be a little bit of a hippie at times with a touch of spirituality.
My mom jokingly calls her visits to my place “rehab trips.” She says she always leaves lighter, happier, and full—emotionally and physically.
That’s love. That’s care. That’s wife energy.
The Beauty of the Wait
I don’t know when my husband will recognize me.
But I’ve learned that I must recognize myself first.
I used to say things like, “I just hope I meet someone who has the patience and understanding to deal with me. Someone who will be kind to me and let me be myself without making fun of me for it.”
I remember my therapist combatting that thought saying, “You’re NOT someone to be dealt with. You’re someone that’s enjoyable to experience. You’re not an inconvenience. Change your self talk.”
And I have. Now I admire marriage—the accountability, the transparency, the teamwork, the growth. But I respect that I’m in my preparation season. My Ruth season.
I’m tending to the field:
- Building my career in clinical research.
- Helping people live out their dreams.
- Serving home-cooked meals to friends and family.
- Going on nature walks.
- Reading books on my patio.
- Getting caught up in deep conversation with a stranger.
- Learning to be just as patient and kind to myself as I am with others.
And maybe, just maybe, one day someone will look across the field and say, “Her? Yeah… that’s my wife.”
I used to feel disappointed when past relationships didn’t end in marriage to the point that I would drag them out long past their expiration dates. Blaming myself because it not working out had to be my fault right? But now, I understand—those men just weren’t my husband. And I wasn’t their wife.
But I am a wife. I’ve always been.
Until he recognizes me—or better yet, until I recognize him—I guess I’ll keep pinning ideas on Pinterest for my dream Vegas elopement.
Until next time,
Later bloomers 💐
This one was for me. But if it spoke to you too, subscribe—and take a look at my piece on the beauty of delayed marriages: https://latebloomerchronicles.com/late-bloomers-excel-in-long-lasting-marriages/ . Because love on its own timeline? Still love. Still beautiful.
