I think it’s important to share this story from the beginning… and by that I mean with the answer to the most common question I get from strangers who find out about my marriage count — How did you become a woman who married five different men? This is usually followed by unhinged comments like “Are you OKAY?” or “If I ever get divorced/lose my spouse I will never get married again!” Even better yet, my two personal favorites — basically the only options I hear from middle aged men — “Can’t turn a hoe into a housewife!” or some variation of “That (insert derogatory sex organ term) must be FIRE! Kryptonite.”
Insert MASSIVE EYE ROLL coupled with a need to talk to Jesus so I don’t choose violence. I mean, it’s not ALL MEN. But — it is ALWAYS MEN.
I do appreciate the opportunity it affords me to let my absolutely feral and unhinged side out. I tend to clapback with responses like:
- “Wouldn’t you like to know?”
- “Honey, I’m so far out of your league we don’t even play in the same arenas.”
- “I think you mean you can’t turn a felon, cheater or liar into a King.”
Usually they say nothing and walk away. When they don’t, I give them my best version of the mom death stare I perfected while raising children — the one that clearly communicates “I wish you would.”
To be completely honest, I believe a variety of factors contributed to me choosing marriage again and again. First, there’s nature. My biological mother was married at least 5 times, maybe 7… I don’t remember specifically but I do remember thinking it was a lot. She told me when I met her for the first time when I was 19. Most of her siblings were married more than once too. When she first told me I didn’t spend too much time thinking about how it might influence my own experiences with love and marriage, because I was too young and too naive to even consider the possibility it might. (There’s obviously a lot more to that story — and I will absolutely get into it.) I truly believe, due to the overwhelming amount of evidence in my own life alone, that biology plays a huge factor in who we become as humans, even if we aren’t aware of that biology.
Secondly, I think my upbringing had a lot to do with it. I was raised with strict conservative values, a strong emphasis on the nuclear family, a lot of rules, expectations, and standards for what made romantic relationships acceptable, buttoned up with a healthy dose of judgement-induced shame. This on top of the debilitating fear of not measuring up drove me to want to make every relationship ACCEPTABLE.
Finally, the example my parents gave me of what marriage looks like, what it’s intended to be, and the stability it provided for them made me genuinely obsessed with having it for myself. I wanted to marry every boy I looked at. I wrote about my current husband in my diary at age 8. On the page after it — a list of boys my 8-year-old self would marry. (Including my husband. ♥️)
The desire to be a wife and mother, to make a home like the one I had grown up in was so strong that even when I tried and failed at it, I never wanted to give up on the possibility of having the same love, commitment and stability I had watched at home. It was truly a perfect storm that culminated into what my dad teases is…
“The unending hunt for the future ex-Mr. Loyd.”
— My Dad (Because not once have I ever changed my name.🤣😂)
I got engaged for the first time when I was barely 17. His name was Ryan. He was almost two years older than me, he drove a late-nineties red Ford Mustang… and y’all — he was FIIIIINE!!!!!!!! We were like Ken and Barbie, except I was brunette and have only ever dreamed about being tall enough to reach the top shelf in my kitchen.
We hadn’t been dating long — a few months — but he was going to basic, which would most likely be followed by going to war. (This was circa 2002.) He asked me after prom. We drove out to this spot in the valley at the base of a mountain. It was a hangout where teenagers in town had been going to party or get laid since my Papa’s generation.
Late April/Early May is usually wind and rain season in New Mexico, but that night was an exception. One I was grateful for as we laid on the hood of his Mustang, my head on his chest. It was the middle of the night, not a cloud in the sky, and a light breeze circled the sweet smell of mesquite in the air. He was sweet, slightly nervous, but genuinely sincere. I could see the heaviness he was carrying about joining the military. He didn’t have to say it, but I knew — he really needed me to say yes.
But y’all, let me be expertly clear: there was no way I was telling that man no. I was giddy. It was the first time I felt that feeling… the one I would find myself chasing for the next twenty years. It was a feeling of accomplishment, security and hope. More than that — finally fitting into the belief system I lived inside — I belonged.
It didn’t last long. He went off to basic a few weeks later and…
I never spoke to that man again. Ever.
🤯 Just like that. Chapter closed.
He never wrote. He never called. I never heard any other information.
And — I did not even care. You see… that was the carefree summer before college started. It was the early 2000s and we were all living like every day was spring break in Cancun. It was straight HOODRAT season.
What I didn’t know then?
Two years later I would be a wife — and a mother.