The Speech I Didn't Know I Was Ready to Give

The scroll dropped. So did the mask.

Part 1 in The Tender Places Series

I didn't plan to cry during my son's wedding speech.

I'd written notes. I'd practiced in my head. I was going to be composed, warm, wise—the mother who could stand up there and share some hard-won marriage wisdom without falling apart. I'd made it through the ceremony without losing it, mostly. I could make it through this.

I'd even gotten a little creative with my notes. I'd printed my speech on a couple sheets of paper and then taped at least a dozen sheets together to form one long scroll. When I stood up, I said something like, "I'm going to share some of the lessons I've learned about marriage," and let the rest of the scroll fall.

It bounced off the floor and unrolled dramatically down the aisle.

The room erupted in laughter. Mission accomplished—I'd broken the ice, set a lighthearted tone, made it clear I wasn't taking myself too seriously up here.

But then I looked at my son and his bride sitting there in front of me, and at my husband beside me—this man I'd built an incredible, hard-won relationship with over the past 32 years—and I felt something shift.

Not just emotion, though there was plenty of that. But something deeper. A recognition.

I was standing there as someone I didn't used to be.

Who I Used to Be

The words that came out—about vulnerability as courage, about trust as sacred responsibility, about giving someone the map to your tender places and believing they'll hold that power gently—those weren't things the old version of me could have said. Not out loud. Not with confidence. Not without apologizing for taking up space or worrying that I was being too intense or too much.

I'd spent so many years as "just a mom." That was my identity. My pride. My entire sense of purpose. And it was real—motherhood shaped me, taught me, gave me some of my deepest joys. But somewhere along the way, "just a mom" had also become a place to hide. A way to avoid becoming fully myself because if I was busy being what everyone else needed, I didn't have to figure out who I was underneath all that service.

But standing there at my son's wedding, I wasn't hiding anymore.

I was fully present. Fully myself. Speaking truth I'd earned through decades of marriage, through military moves that tested everything, through the slow, painful work of releasing identities that no longer served me and discovering who I actually was beneath them.

And what surprised me most wasn't the emotion—I expected that. It was the clarity.

What I Was Really Saying

Here's what happened as I gave that speech: I thought I was talking about marriage.

I thought I was giving my son and his bride some practical wisdom about commitment and communication and not letting the little things become the big things. And I was. But I was also talking about something much bigger.

I was talking about what it takes to love well in any relationship.

To show up whole instead of edited. To be fully seen and still fully loved. To trust someone with the parts of yourself you usually keep hidden—not because you're weak, but because that's where the real connection lives.

The themes I found myself articulating weren't just advice for newlyweds. They were the lessons I'd been learning through my own transformation. Through coaching work that asks people to bring their whole selves. Through building a business that requires me to be visible in ways that used to terrify me. Through friendships and partnerships and every relationship where I've had to choose between the safe, sanitized version of myself and the real, messy, still-figuring-it-out version.

Every time, the real version is scarier. And every time, it's also where the magic lives.

What This Series Is About

This series explores seven themes from that wedding speech, but they're really about one thing: what it takes to be known.

Not just seen. Not just acknowledged. But truly known—with all your imperfections, insecurities, scars, and tender places—and loved anyway. Or maybe, loved especially because of those things.

We'll talk about commitment to direction rather than agreement, because you can't expect to be on the same page every day with anyone—not your spouse, not your business partner, not your closest friend. But you can commit to walking toward the same summit.

We'll talk about vulnerability as courage, because showing someone your highlight reel is easy. Showing them the whole truth of who you are? That takes guts. And it's also the only path to real intimacy.

We'll explore trust as sacred responsibility—what it means when someone hands you the map to their tender places, and how to hold that power without ever wanting to use it as a weapon.

We'll look at growing together without losing yourself, because the best version of any relationship needs the best version of both people, and you can't become your best self by erasing who you are.

We'll remember that joy matters, that laughter is oxygen, that not everything has to be so damn serious all the time.

And in the end, we'll circle back to what I learned from standing up there at my son's wedding—about releasing old identities while stepping into new ones, about the bittersweet freedom of letting go, about what integration looks like when you're proud and grieving and hopeful all at the same time.

Where I Am Now

None of this is theoretical for me. I'm living it right now.

My husband is retiring from military service after 30+ years. We've just completed our 20th move. Our son just got married. I don't know if we're staying in Arizona or moving somewhere completely new. I'm building a business while simultaneously releasing decades-old identities and figuring out who I am in this next chapter.

It's messy. It's uncertain. Some days I feel like I'm climbing that mountain in the fog with no clear view of the summit.

But I know I'm walking in the right direction. And I know I'm doing it as my whole self—not the edited version, not "just a mom," not the people-pleaser who used to apologize for having needs and dreams and opinions.

The version of me who stood up at that wedding and spoke those truths? She's been a long time coming. And she's still becoming.

The Invitation

That's what this series is really about. Not marriage advice, though there's plenty of that. But the deeper work of showing up whole in a world that often rewards hiding. Of choosing vulnerability even when it's terrifying. Of trusting others with your tender places because that's the only way to build something real.

Next in the series: Two Paths, One Mountain—On commitment to direction, not agreement

I'd love to hear from you. What relationships in your life have asked you to show up whole? Where have you found the courage to be fully seen? Drop a comment or reach out—I read everything.