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I knew that if I ever got married, I didn’t want the big fairy-tale wedding. As a kid, I was obsessed with two things: fashion and climate change. I was born in New Orleans and understood from an early age that my city was on the front lines of rising sea levels, and I would stay up watching Fashion TV on VH1 (google it) while fixating on coastal erosion. I recently found a journal entry from when I was nine years old, detailing three things on my mind: global warming, what to wear on the first day of school, and the boy I liked. (Spoiler: It’s not the man I married a few weeks ago on spring equinox.)
When I was young, I bristled at the idea of marriage and weddings as some sort of final destination. I looked to my mother, grandmother, and godmother as examples of how to pave one’s own path. My mother was far from traditional: She gave me and my sisters her wedding dress as a Mardi Gras costume, never being overly precious about it (a version of upcycling?). I saw my New York City godmother, the late gallerist Julie Saul (who never got married), as the independent option. And I joked that my Grandma Bea was going to have her grandmother license revoked for telling me, “You don’t need to get married and have kids. But if you do, choose someone who makes you laugh.”
I put marriage aside altogether and fixated on becoming an environmental lawyer. When Hurricane Katrina became the backdrop to my college graduation, I doubled down and got jobs working for environmental nonprofits and the co-chair of the Congressional global-warming committee. I unexpectedly fell in love with storytelling, so I moved away from law and toward PR. In 2013 I cofounded an agency with a mission: to amplify the people, companies, and nonprofits working to create a better world.
A few years in I met a man who met my grandma’s criteria: He shared my values and made me laugh a lot. In 2019 we spontaneously got engaged over dinner at Russ Daughters Cafe on Orchard Street, where my grandma’s family coincidentally had a modest hosiery cart in the early 1900s. I told him I didn’t care about or want a new ring, so the next day we went to Pippin Vintage and selected a vintage pearl band by Mikimoto, a company with a long history of sustainability, which felt more aligned. While I couldn’t help but start to dream of the big New Orleans wedding, I really wanted a small affair that didn’t cost a lot and created minimal waste.
The pandemic gave us a pregnant pause (and a pregnancy), so I had six years to plan a wedding that we’d ultimately pull together in two weeks. We kept it intimate and symbolic, with only five guests: our parents and our son. For the outfit, I wanted my choices to reflect my values, which meant wearing only pre-loved garments or pieces by friends’ sustainable brands. Besides, I was convinced I already had the dress in my closet: a sheer number bought a year prior at Jerome Vintage. But at the last minute, I knew it was wrong for the occasion.
Panicking a bit, I began asking friends for help (the benefit of working in this industry for over 10 years). I reached out to Maria McManus, and she immediately said, “I’ve got exactly the dress for you.” It was perfect: minimal yet intricate and elegant. A writer friend, Jayme Cyk, connected me with Allison Bornstein, who helped me with styling: She found a pair of The Row shoes that I was able to purchase on Vestiaire Collective and Completedworks earrings that were pearl with a modern twist.
I also reached out to Robyn Davies, a brilliant stylist who helps reimagine people’s existing wardrobes. She’d recently transformed my closet without purchasing a single item and immediately loaned me her lace gloves and suggested I style the dress with a blazer. With two days to spare, we rounded out the look with an ivory jacket from Another Tomorrow. The founder, Vanessa Barboni Hallik, is working so hard to transform the industry, and I wanted to wear something by her. I knew I’d rewear everything I bought—from the dress and blazer to the shoes and earrings. The final touches were things I already owned: my mother’s simple gold bracelet (inherited from her mom), a pearl necklace from Alaseius, my vintage pearl engagement ring, and my Grandma Bea’s topaz ring, which she left to me when she passed away last spring.
I worked with Alex Crowder of Field Studies Flora to make a bouquet. She uses locally sourced, seasonal flowers to create gorgeous, sculptural designs, and I trusted her to make whatever inspired her. She even gave flowers to my son—whom I dressed in Veja Kids sneakers (he picked the color), a suit that matched his dad’s, and a Mini Rodini shirt.
Since we had an 11 a.m. courthouse appointment, there wasn’t much time to get ready. Neil Pittman has done my hair for 10 years, and he introduced me to his genius makeup-artist friend, Natalia Thomas. Their friendship, and the longevity of working with Neil, made for a festive 7 a.m. start: coffee and makeup/hair in the kitchen while my parents watched our kid. When they were done, I felt natural and like myself, but 2.0 me. I threw on my dress and coat, and we rode the subway to City Hall. Everyone on the Q train was smiling at us, and it felt like the city was another participant.
Our photographer, Ryan Duffin, met us at City Hall. The ceremony was all I had wanted: other couples ranging in age and backgrounds waiting their turn, with all of us exchanging congratulations. Though our engagement was long and the City Hall wedding process universal, I surprised myself (and all the witnesses) by crying at the altar. Being moved to tears is usually my husband’s department, but it was such a special and meaningful moment.
Afterward, we headed up to Russ Daughters for lunch, where my friend, the artist Sam Bloom, greeted us with her camera and captured everything beautifully on film. To be back at the restaurant where we got engaged six years prior, and on the street where my grandmother’s family made a meager living selling hosiery over 100 years ago, was all I could’ve imagined and had ultimately wanted. I closed my eyes a few times and felt her presence—and the big meaning behind our little choices.
When I shared the significance with Niki Russ Federman, whose family started Russ Daughters, she replied, “Who knows, maybe my great-grandmother Bella Russ or one of the Russ daughters bought hosiery from that cart! I like to say, and kind of believe, that all roads lead back to the Lower East Side.” I reflected on these words as we took the B train home to Brooklyn.
Truthfully, I had never dreamed of this day. I had only ever dreamed of a future working on issues that were important to me and finding a community that did the same. But by incorporating all that with a partner who shares those values and by giving meaning to the details, I got the wedding I didn’t even know I wanted.