Why We Accept the Labels Others Give Us (and How to Rewrite Them)

The last rays of the July sun were making their way through the hotel towering above us. A few meters away from the beach was where the event was taking place. The sea was flecked with waves and their crashing sound, mixed with the light breeze added to the magic of the moment. I was sitting at the central table because I was one of the central figures of the evening. I was the best man. The best man of my best friend.

We’ve known each other since 1st grade. And while we weren’t close comrades exactly from 1st grade, we had more than 20 years of shared experiences. Yet, despite knowing my friend for so many years, his wife, our common friends who were all around us, and most of the relatives attending on this strangely cloudless day despite the stormy sea, I was nervous. My leg was shaking beneath the white-covered wooden table. Alcohol did help, but my primal instinct not to embarrass myself in front of 100+ humans all staring in our direction was stronger. What these folks didn’t know, though, is that they were all going to cry in less than 20 minutes.

It was time. The host announced my name. I stood up, still holding my future wife’s hand. She squeezed it and whispered, “Good luck.” I squeezed her hand in return and then let it go slowly, running my fingers over her palm to savor her calm skin for just a moment more.

I forced myself to walk slowly towards the stage. I wanted to keep a steady pace so I wouldn’t leave myself breathless and thus have a rough start talking. I reached the middle, turned around, and faced the eager crowd. All eyes were on me, and my eyes on as many as I could possibly glare at the same time. A moment later, I was talking.

My phone, speech loaded with my notes, was in my hand just for reassurance. I never ended up needing it. I knew the words by heart. That was what I had been doing for the past few days – making sure I can recite it flawlessly. And the speech had a single purpose – tell the love story of my friend and his wife in a way that made everyone in the ceremony absolutely certain they were – as cliché as it sounds – born to be together. But the story wasn’t meant to reason, it was designed to stir emotions. It was intended to showcase how great their love is. And, hopefully, through words, I could transfer to all attendees how I see their relationship – inspiring and undeniable.

As I pronounced my last sentence, I raised my glass and I looked more closely at the honored guests at their tables. Almost all of them had their hands on their eyes, brushing the drops pouring out. I smiled triumphantly. Not at their tears, but at what they represented – the love story had gotten to them. Because these weren’t tears of sadness, they were tears of strong emotion. A feeling spilling out through a joyful cry.

What followed was a crowd of hugs and kisses. First was the bride, followed by my friend, and then all the others came. While the girls were all saying how beautiful the speech was, my close male friends were all using inappropriate words because they couldn’t believe they suddenly found themselves weeping. When things kind of settled down, a woman I didn’t know – relative to the wife -approached with wide eyes. She grabbed my hand and said, “Thank you! Thank you! Are you a writer?” She didn’t let me respond, “Oh, wow, that was a beautiful speech.” She leaned and hugged me like she wasn’t hugging a stranger, but rather a close friend.

None of that would have happened if I wasn’t rebellious in nature. During all of my school life, teachers were telling me that I sucked at writing. My mom was constantly making me do dictations to improve. Yet, I wasn’t improving. My writing was always covered in red pen corrections, exposing my faulty spelling.