Be Yourself (Everyone Else is Already Taken)

As a kid, I loved reading. I absolutely devoured Enid Blyton—The Faraway Tree, The Famous Five, The Twins at St. Clare’s—I couldn’t get enough of them. I’d read by torchlight under the covers, utterly hooked. So, naturally, when I started writing my own stories, they came out sounding suspiciously Blyton-esque: all midnight feasts and plucky heroines and improbable lashings of ginger beer. She was my hero. And for a long time, I thought that’s how “real” writers were supposed to sound—like someone else. I actually remember a classmate piping up on a story I was asked to read aloud, saying, 'She copied that from Enid Blyton!'

I've never forgotten the teacher's response. She told that little snot rag no: I allowed other great writers to inspire me, but I made the stories my own.

The same thing happened when I first began working as a celebrant. I played it safe. I had my trusty little Word document of tried-and-tested phrases—lines I’d heard other celebrants use, things I’d picked up online, wording that sounded... well, correct. And they were correct. Polished. Professional. Perfectly serviceable. The kind of lines you could drop into a ceremony and nobody would blink. Safe, solid scaffolding. And while I was still finding my feet, I needed that scaffolding.

Because the truth is, even with a background in writing and a few decades of life experience, stepping into someone else’s story—being trusted to hold it gently in front of their family and friends—is no small thing. I felt the weight of that responsibility. I still do. And I really, really wanted to get it right. But back then, I wasn’t sure how much of me I was allowed to bring to the front of the room.

And then along came Claire.

Claire—my wedding mentor, my cheerleader, and a woman who gives good straight-talking when it’s needed—has this effortless way of being completely herself in a ceremony. Relaxed, grounded, deeply human. I remember watching her doing her thing and thinking: That. I want to do that. Not copy her—I don’t mean that—but find my version of that confidence. That warmth. That originality. That truth-telling voice.

As part of my wedding training, I had to submit four scripts to Claire for feedback. After I sent her my first one, she came back and said it was perfectly nice.

Ouch.

She also gave me loads of encouragement—she’s not a monster—but she gently pointed out a few well-worn phrases and challenged me to write something a bit more original next time.

Double ouch.

But she was right, of course. The whole point of having a celebrant is knowing they’ll tell your story with authenticity and care. And we can’t do that if we’re hiding behind other people’s words because we’re not yet brave enough to use our own.

That feedback landed hard, but it also lit something up in me. Because don’t we all do that? We follow the script because it’s safe. We don’t speak out because we’re scared—of being judged, of getting it wrong, of not being liked. But what’s the point of any of it if we can’t show up as ourselves?

So I started writing my ceremonies the same way I speak. I began to trust my gut when interviewing families—following the moments that made them smile, gently exploring the silences, leaning into the laughter when it bubbled up. And I discovered that not only could I be myself… it was exactly what people wanted and needed.

Because honestly? No one wants a generic script when they’re saying goodbye to someone they love. Nobody wants the wedding equivalent of “insert name here.” They want their story. Their quirks. The lopsided grin. The terrible singing voice. The muddy boots at the back door. The real stuff.

These days, I still love a good structure (I’m not feral). But I also leave room for instinct. I say the things that might not be “standard” but feel true. I make space for tears and giggles. For awkward pauses. For spontaneous applause. I remind myself that I’m not there to perform. I’m there to connect.

To reflect back the best of what people shared with me—and to hold it up gently so everyone else can see it too.

And what I’ve come to realise is this: being a good celebrant isn’t about sounding impressive. It’s about being present. Being human. Being you.

And really, that’s not just about celebrancy. That’s about life.

So if you’re still finding your voice, don’t worry if it takes a while. Start where you are. Use the scaffolding. Take a breath.

And when you’re ready? Ditch the script. Say the thing only you would say.

Because, as Oscar Wilde so beautifully put it: Be yourself. Everyone else is already taken.