On the day we married, there was a lot to take up our worries. We found out earlier that morning that our COVID tests for Hawaii were invalid, so we needed to get tested again and have our results in hand before we boarded our flight early the next morning. The nearest testing center was a 3-hour round trip, and there were 4 hours left until the ceremony when we came to this realization. When it was all said and done I had about 40 minutes to get ready, but I remember feeling okay, all things considered.

We flew through the ceremony and snapped some pictures to hold on a little longer. When the guests were seated and the reception rang in, we went over to the cake prepared just for Caleb and me. But I never tasted our wedding cake. I was too worried about what I’d look like the next morning, what monster would erupt to weigh me down and take me with it. I thought if I ate it, I was losing my willpower, and if I could resist on the most celebratory day of my life, I was truly disciplined. I scooped the world's smallest drop of icing and locked my arm around Caleb’s for a picture.

I thought about the moments that made this possible. Years of counting, caring and not, loathing and loving, and the little girl who wasn’t any good at gymnastics in her too-tight leotard. That girl whose cholesterol was too high to take her acne medicine and the same one who got compliments when she went on a diet in seventh grade to get those pills. The short, small one, who sits quietly during dinner time and works out in the bedroom after. After a quick exchange, we were back in our seats. Caleb took his piece and I sat to watch the guests.

So, I never tasted our wedding cake. And it’s my only regret from that day.

I heard it was wonderful and decedent, with a light raspberry jam. But I never did taste our wedding cake.

When I come through this tall, when I remember just who I am, and who God made me to be, I’m going to that bakery and ordering that cake. Cause I’m gonna taste my wedding cake...if it’s the last thing I do.