- Jeanna Kadlec's work appears in Longreads, Elle, Allure, Nylon, LitHub, and more. She lives in NYC.
- The following is an adapted excerpt from her memoir "Heretic."
My mother and sister tell me I had a panic attack the night before my wedding, that they both massaged me with essential oils in our hotel room at the Westin, a dozen floors above the gardens where I would get married the next day: rubbed my back and tended to my feet in an effort to soothe my anxious nerves.
I have no memory of this, my body's last revolt.
"Jeanna has a teachable spirit. A willingness to submit, to learn, to be taught by her husband, is such an important trait in a wife." Kyle's best man was giving his speech at our reception in the Year of Our Lord 2011 with a microphone that barely worked, thank God, because the singular trait he chose to focus on when speaking to our hundred or so guests was my submission. My chest tightened, the red blush of anger creeping up my neck.
The one word I had fought to have struck from our marriage vows, the one word I had struggled with the most in our premarital counseling, and there it was, chasing me down at my own wedding reception. I plastered a smile on my face. All eyes were on me, the bride; all I had to do was get through it.
My bridesmaids were a support system through my wedding — but why did I need one?
My sister, Jo, made absolutely no secret of looking down the head table at me, completely aghast. "What the fuck?" she mouthed, not caring if anyone saw her swearing in a bridesmaid's dress. She wasn't the only one. A few seats down, another bridesmaid, a friend from high school, was also seeking eye contact, her expression one of total disgust — a "Can you believe this guy?" Amy, my maid of honor and best friend from college, seated right next to me, kept facing forward and smiling, but tightly squeezed my hand under the table.
They all knew how I had struggled with the fact that we were getting married so young, with the expectation of being an obedient Christian wife, even though Kyle said he wanted me to be myself. He wouldn't be marrying me if he expected a woman like his mother, the pastor's wife. He knew I was ambitious and headstrong, and when he assured me that he loved those things about me, I believed him.
I took deep breaths, trying to calm the anxiety that had risen during the best man's speech. I clutched Amy's hand — Amy, my emotional support, my first line of defense, my person. She put her other hand over mine, reassuring.
Kyle, who was seated on my other side, didn't seem to notice. The words — "teachable," "submissive" — lingered in the air after the speech was over. I deliberately suppressed my discomfort at how trapped I felt. This was my new role: I was his wife now. I couldn't express my displeasure; I had to be nice to his friends, no matter what they said about me.
I walked over to the best man and hugged him. "Thank you, that was wonderful," I said, doing my best to deliver a convincing lie. I glanced over at Kyle as Amy took the mic and started her maid of honor speech. My new husband was totally oblivious to my emotions. It was as if we were attending two separate wedding receptions. Was he not as bothered by the word, knowing how I personally felt about it?
I definitely looked the part of a dutiful Christian bride: a 1950s tea-length white dress with cap sleeves, a lace boatneck, and a V-cut back that was deep enough to be modern but not offensive to my new in-laws. The pearls in my hair, framing the drop pearl earrings. Pink and pale and neutral. Placid. Unthreatening. Virginal.
I looked how I had planned to look. And I could barely breathe.
Adapted from "Heretic: A Memoir" by Jeanna Kadlec. Published by Harper, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers. Copyright © 2022 by Jeanna Kadlec. All rights reserved.