I chose myself instead of waiting to be chosen

On self-doubt and the permission we think we need

I didn’t think I’d ever want to get married again. Two failed marriages had put me off the idea.

And yet. There I was, on the back of Chris’ Harley, cruising down Beach Road in Cape Town. Arms wrapped around his waist. Wondering when he was going to propose.

I knew he wanted to. But he was deep in a house renovation that was draining him financially and emotionally. A proposal would have to wait.

My logical brain understood that completely. But my self-doubting voice was having none of it. It turned his financial timing into evidence that I didn’t matter.

That’s what the self-doubting voice does. It takes perfectly reasonable circumstances and twists them into proof of your worst fears about yourself.

Maybe he didn’t really want me.
Maybe I wasn’t a priority.
Maybe I wasn’t enough.

I couldn’t shut it off, and it was driving me nuts.

Then something on the radio reminded me it was a leap year. Some old tradition about women proposing on the 29th of February. It got me thinking.

Why was I waiting for someone to choose me?

I liked the idea of that. Of not waiting. Of being the one who decides. But the self-doubting voice had more to say. If I was the one doing it, was I just forcing a choice he hadn’t made himself? Was that proof I wasn’t enough?

So stupid. And yet I drove myself round the bend with it for a while.

I told my best friend I was thinking about proposing. He suggested I take the weekend to think about it. I had a trip planned with Chris anyway, so the timing worked.

What I didn’t plan was the testing that weekend would bring.

Stop one: a cottage on a wine farm. Fifteen minutes after arriving, Chris was in the bathroom. I was sitting on the bed. I saw movement at the door. A snake slithered in. It was the width of my arms, the length of my body. It had wrapped itself around my bag.

I called to Chris, calmly, that he might want to come out of the bathroom right away.

It was one of the deadliest snakes in South Africa. The kind that bites you twice before you know it’s bitten you. We were trapped on one side of the room. The snake and my bag were between us and the only way out.

The owner arrived with her children and dog. Chris leaped over the snake to protect them from harm. He returned with a bin, oven mitts, and barbecue tongs. He pinned the snake, retrieved my bag, and had the thing released elsewhere. Unharmed.

Day two: a trail run in the mountains. Somehow, we got separated from the group. We were alone on the trail when we found ourselves surrounded by baboons. The large male got separated from the others, which, as Chris explained, was the scenario you really didn’t want. It charged at us.

Chris grabbed a stick from the ground and charged back, yelling. They got a bit too close for my comfort before it finally backed down.

That night, I messaged my best friend. “Yeah. He’s definitely the one.”

I’d more or less already decided before the snake and the baboon. But after that weekend, I wasn’t letting him go.

What I hadn’t figured out yet was how to get his ring size without him knowing. He doesn’t always sleep well. One night, I suggested he take a sleeping tablet. I waited. When I was sure he was fully under, I took a piece of string from my bedside table and wrapped it around his finger.

When I went to buy his ring, the jeweller asked for his size. I pulled out the piece of string. “About this big,” I said.

I bought my own ring too. I’d already seen the one I wanted at an antique shop. I knew it was mine the moment I saw it.

I was a mess of nerves in the run up to the proposal. It gave me a new respect for everyone who has ever done this. He said yes, by the way.

Afterward, occasionally, I’d look down at my ring and that voice would start up again. You bought that for yourself. He didn’t choose it for you. And I’d have to remind myself what it actually represents.

Not just our love. My love for myself.

A ring I chose. A man I chose. A moment I stopped waiting for someone to offer me what I already knew I wanted.

I didn’t need the leap year as a reason. I know that now. But sometimes that’s how it goes. You need a permission slip before you’ll trust your own knowing.

Where are you waiting to be chosen, or waiting for permission, when you could just grab the reins yourself?