It’s been two days since my brother’s wedding, and I’m still crying. Not because I’m sad. It’s a different kind of crying—the kind that shows up when something is so full, so beautiful, you don’t quite know where to put it. So it stays. It lingers. And it moves through you slowly.
I’ve realized there are moments in life when you need to stop. Not rush to the next thing on your list. Not snap back to work or routine like nothing happened. Even joy—especially joy—needs space. It needs quiet. Time to settle into you so you can actually feel it.
But we’re not really taught how to do that. We’re used to thinking we have to “move on” quickly, like we’re little machines that just keep going. But no. After something big, even something happy, you need a moment. You need rest. You need to let yourself be in it. Not because you’re being dramatic. But because if you don’t stop for a second, you risk losing the depth of it. And I don’t want to lose any of this.
My brother got married.
In Umbria. At our family home. The house where we’ve spent Easters with our grandparents, long summer birthdays, New Year’s Eve dinners with our aunt. The house where lunch always turns into dinner, and someone always opens another bottle even when we’ve said a hundred times we’re done.
It’s home. And this time, it’s where my brother got ready to marry Vale—surrounded by his friends who flew in from Germany, Iran, Romania. People who’ve shared different parts of his life, all showing up in the same place, at the same time, just to be there for them. And I think that’s what got me the most—watching their worlds come together in one room.
Friends. Family. People from different times in their lives. Some we’ve known since we were kids, some we met along the way. But they were all there. Showing up. Saying, “I’m here.” And that kind of love? That kind of presence? It gets you.
The ceremony was in the church where my aunt got married, where my grandparents renewed their vows for their 50th anniversary. Years ago, my brother walked my grandma down that same aisle. And now he was standing there, waiting for his bride.
The look on his face said everything.
And Don Massimo, the priest… he was brilliant. I know church ceremonies can feel long, heavy, formal. This wasn’t that. It felt like everyone was holding their breath, waiting for the next thing he was going to say. Like the final episode of a show you never want to end.
He talked about them. How he first saw them together, the way they looked at each other. He told stories. Honest ones. About love, forgiveness, humility. About how important it is to say “I love you,” even when it’s hard. And then my sister stood up and read. And you could feel her faith in every word. You could feel her heart. The whole church was quiet. Everyone was listening.
Afterwards, we all went back to the castle. It was the perfect backdrop, but not just because it was beautiful. There was something in the air that night. Maybe it was because we were all sleeping under the same roof, like some big, joyful sleepover. Or maybe because we knew we were inside a moment you don’t get to live twice.
It felt like a bubble. One of those rare ones where time slows down and you don’t want to leave.
And then there were the dances. Valentina danced with her dad, and he held her like she was still a little girl. They played Il senso di ogni cosa, and it hit different in that moment. Then my brother danced with my mom, and you could tell she didn’t want to let go. She was holding on to every second, trying to stop time in its tracks.
And then he grabbed me and my sister and spun us around, lifted us off the ground like when we were kids. And after that? We danced until four in the morning. Shoes off, ties around our heads, laughing so much it hurt.
Today I’m home again. Scrolling through photos. Crying all over again. Because feelings like these? They don’t just leave. And they shouldn’t.
Maybe that’s the point. Letting ourselves feel the good things. Even after they’re over. Taking a minute. Letting it sink in. And saying thank you. One more time.
