Why I Married The Same Man 5 Times

Before my husband and I were even a couple, he once asked me what I’d do if I ever really liked someone. I wasn’t known for liking people very much, but I’d thought about it enough to answer.

“I’d get married,” I texted.

“That’s pretty traditional for a nontraditional girl,” he wrote back.

“Well,” I replied, “I don’t believe in sitting on the fence. And I definitely don’t need a boyfriend. Plus, I’d marry the person over and over.”

I hit send – then spent the next 15 minutes explaining what I meant. I didn’t want one massive wedding with one massive price tag and the pressure of making everything perfect in a single day. If I ever married, I wanted the freedom to do it again and again because the 10th time would feel different than the first.

At the time, it sounded like a quirky theory. Twelve years later, it’s become the way I understand marriage.

So far, I’ve married my husband five times. Though we’ve only done it once legally, each time we exchange vows I learn something new about myself and our relationship.

After we moved in together, my husband proposed in the middle of sex and then took me to Ikea, which, honestly, feels like the most accurate version of modern romance.

We started planning a wedding, but then one night he said, “I really just wish we were already married.”

A few days later, we stood in front of a judge in the York County Courthouse. I cried – loudly, uncontrollably – through the entire ceremony. I cried so much, I’m convinced the judge thought I was a victim of human trafficking. He looked genuinely alarmed by the idea that this man made me sob my way into matrimony.

It was ridiculous. It was memorable. It was real. It was totally raw.

And if that had been my only wedding – my only chance to mark the moment – I’m not sure I’d feel as tender about it now.

We later married at a small inn in Connecticut – bouquet, gluten-free cake, handwritten vows, photographs – the works. I still cried, but less this time. I had vows to read out loud and mascara to protect. It was the stuff of fairy tales, and the innkeepers knew exactly how to make it memorable.

It was dreamy. It was intentional. It felt like a celebration instead of a confession.

We were in Vegas for work and decided it was as good a time as any to say “I do” again. After sushi and DefCon talks, an ex–Iraqi Freedom fighter drove us across town in his taxi to a small chapel where a minister named Cotton live-streamed our ceremony.

He read from the Book of Ruth – my very Southern grandmother’s favourite book.

She’d been gone for decades, but standing there, I felt like she had reached across time to whisper: Where you go, I will go. And your people will be my people. I cried again – on livestream.

At that point, I accepted that this is simply who I am: the woman who cries at weddings she keeps having with the same man.

For Valentine’s Day, we descended into an underground lake in Tennessee to renew our vows. A local radio DJ officiated the ceremony. There were neon hearts. A boat ride across dark water. The DJ’s tone of voice made everything feel like we were about to take a commercial break. It was like the Egyptian underworld with better lighting and no one to weigh my heart against a feather.

Fearsome creatures aside, I fully admit, when they turned the lights off to show just how deep and dark the cave went, I cried again.

At Le Mont-Saint-Michel, a Catholic abbey rising from the sea, we renewed our vows once more. The priest was flustered as he hunted for the correct liturgy. My grandmother was a devoted Baptist. Her people spoke in tongues and made up entire sermons on the fly. They let the voice of God catapult them to the next words. The Catholics operate with more precision. As I watched the priest shuffle his papers, I realised something I hadn’t expected: how deeply comforting ritual can be.

The priest finally found his words. I breathed deep and willed myself not to cry – not because I wasn’t full of emotion, but because I felt like tears would confuse the already flustered clergyman.

I thought back at that moment in York County 12 years prior, and the look on the judge’s face during my incessant weeping. Then I brought myself back into the now. The soft lilt of the priest’s French accent as he read in English, the afternoon light, and the magnificence of saying “I do” made me feel centered and grounded.

The liturgy was quick. We were blessed with holy water and then sent out into the main room where an enormous statue of Michel defeating the dragon sat. On the way out, I gave a nod to Joan of Arc.

It was about as far from that Vegas strip club as I could get.

Repeating words spoken for hundreds of years. Standing in a space that held centuries of devotion. Letting the weight of history remind me that love is something you choose – not just once, but again and again – made my eyes water, but there was no ugly crying.

That time I stayed present. I listened. I felt the moment land exactly where it was supposed to. Standing in a fortress on the sea, I experienced a metaphor for how powerful love can be.

Once, in a group conversation, someone scoffed, “It’s not like your vows expire.”

She wasn’t wrong. But she also wasn’t listening. Because for me, remarriage isn’t about expiration dates. It’s about attention.

As an ordained Buddhist, I believe one of the most powerful acts we have is presence – really showing up in a moment instead of replaying old versions of ourselves. Every time we marry again, I’m forced to ask:

How do I feel now?
Who are we today?
What does love look like in this season of our lives?

And most important: Who am I?

Maybe many of us would need less couples therapy if we asked those questions more often – intentionally and out loud.

I once worked with a woman who had been planning her dream wedding since high school. She didn’t even have a boyfriend yet, but she had the dress picked out. When I asked why, she said simply, “Because I want the pretty dress.”

Marriage is deeply personal. For some people, it’s about the spectacle. For others, it’s about tradition. For me, it’s about renewal, transformation and love.

Love doesn’t show up once. The success of any great partnership is that love shows up again and again.

It’s about standing in front of the same person and saying: I choose you.

Again and again and again.

I’ve also learned that it is about choosing yourself – showing up for your needs, being present and staying centred. In a world that wants to pull you in a thousand different directions at once, this is a well-earned life skill.

We don’t know yet where the sixth “I do” will happen, but I do know this: love doesn’t have to be marked only once and you don’t need a ballroom or a budget or a perfectly timed life milestone.

Sometimes all you need is a courthouse.
Sometimes a cave.
Sometimes a priest who can’t find his script.
Sometimes a taxi driver with a war story.

If you’ve ever wished you could go back to your wedding day, maybe you can.

If you’ve ever felt like your relationship deserved a fresh beginning, maybe it does.

You don’t have to marry your partner five times.

But you can choose them again today. You can show up for love and let it wow you in a new, unexpected way.

Lis Anna-Langston is a author, storyteller, and cultural observer whose work explores love, devotion, and the emotional architecture of everyday life. Her essays and stories examine how people navigate identity, memory, borders and social systems that have outlived their moral justification in a rapidly changing world.

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