What Actually Happens in a Wedding Ceremony: A Walk-Through From Where I Stand

A couple asked me something last week, in the slightly apologetic voice people use when they think a question is silly.

"Sorry — this is probably a stupid question. But what actually happens? Like, where do we stand? When do we kiss? Is the signing part of it, or does that happen after?"

It is not a stupid question. It might be the most sensible one I get asked all season, and almost nobody asks it out loud.

Here's why. You've almost certainly been to a wedding before — but you were a guest. You were six rows back, looking at the back of someone's head, holding a warm glass of something and wondering whether you'd parked in the sun. You've never actually seen a ceremony from the front. And now you're about to be in one.

So let me take you through it, from where I'm standing.

First: it's shorter than you think

Most ceremonies I lead run between twenty and thirty minutes. That's it.

People are routinely startled by this. You spend a year planning a wedding, and the legally binding, emotionally enormous centre of it is over in about the length of a sitcom. Which is exactly why it's worth understanding — twenty minutes goes very fast when you're in it.

The half hour before (the bit you won't see)

While you're somewhere else having your hair pinned or pacing in a shed, I'm already at the venue.

I'm checking the paperwork is in order. I'm finding your two witnesses and quietly confirming they know they're witnesses, because roughly a third of witnesses have forgotten. I'm working out where the sun will be in fifteen minutes, whether the microphone is behaving, and who's cueing the music. I'm having a word with whoever looks most nervous — often not the couple, often a parent.

And I'm watching the door for stragglers, because I'd far rather start three minutes late than have your aunty walk in during your vows.

You don't need to think about any of this. That's rather the point of hiring someone.

The entrance

Music starts. People stand up, mostly, though nobody ever quite agrees when.

However you're coming in — down an aisle, from behind a hedge, together, separately, with your kids, with a dog — this is the bit that goes fastest and feels longest.

One piece of advice I give every single couple: walk slower than feels natural. Everyone speeds up. Your legs will want to get you to the front and out of all that looking. Resist it. These are the few seconds where every person who loves you is watching you arrive, and you'll want to have actually been there for it.

The welcome

I start talking. This is where I settle the room.

A good welcome does a few quiet jobs at once: it tells people who we're here for, it acknowledges anyone who's travelled a long way or who isn't here any more, and — importantly — it gives everyone permission to relax. If people laugh in the first minute, the whole ceremony loosens up.

Somewhere in here I'll usually say something about the two of you that only someone who's sat down with you could know. That's the bit your friends will mention at the bar afterwards.

Readings, if you'd like them

Entirely optional. One or two is plenty; three starts to feel like assembly.

If someone's reading for you, send them the words well in advance and tell them how long it should take. And pick your reader for their steadiness rather than their seniority — the person who loves you most is not always the person who can get through a poem.

The vows

This is the centre of it. Yours, or written with me, or repeated after me — all of it is equally real. (I wrote a whole post about getting these written, if you're staring at a blank page.)

Somewhere in here come the words the law actually requires — a version of "I take you to be my legal wife or husband." It's one sentence. I'll have made sure you know exactly when it's coming.

Hold hands if you can. It gives you both something to do, and it steadies you more than you'd expect.

The rings

Short, and usually the funniest part of the day.

Rings stick. Fingers swell in the heat. Somebody's hand shakes. It is almost guaranteed to take a moment longer than anyone planned, and nobody has ever minded — in fact it tends to be the moment the whole room exhales and starts enjoying itself.

The pronouncement, and the kiss

I say the words. You kiss. Everyone makes noise.

Make it a decent one, but not a performance — the photographer needs about two seconds, and your grandmother needs it to be over in about four.

The signing (the bit nobody warns you about)

Here's the thing people genuinely don't expect: directly after the most romantic moment of your life, you do some admin. In front of everyone.

You, your two witnesses and I all sign. It takes three or four minutes and it's oddly quiet, so plan for it. Have music playing. Some couples use this slot for a song someone's been dying to perform, or simply let people talk amongst themselves. Left in silence, it feels like the room is watching you fill in a form — because it is.

Pick your witnesses properly, too. They need to be old enough to understand what they're signing, so if you're hoping a child can do it, check with me first. And one small thing worth knowing: what gets signed on the day isn't your official marriage certificate. That's ordered separately afterwards, and it's not urgent.

Walking back out

I introduce you, usually with whatever name or title you've chosen. You walk back down through everybody.

And then — this is true of every wedding I've ever done — somebody immediately hands you a drink and the next four hours vanish.

A few things nobody tells you

You will not remember it. This is the one that surprises people most. Adrenaline wipes it. Ask a friend to film the ceremony on a phone from the back — not for Instagram, just for you. Couples tell me months later it was the best thing they did.

Someone will cry, and it won't be who you expect. It is very rarely the person everyone's placed bets on. It's often a brother who hasn't cried since 1998.

Your face will be doing something. You can't control it and you shouldn't try. Nobody has ever looked back and wished they'd had better composure at their own wedding.

Eat something. Please. An empty stomach, a warm day and a big emotional moment is how people end up sitting down unexpectedly.

And you can change all of it

Everything above is the usual shape, not the required one. The law asks for a licence, a celebrant, two witnesses and one sentence. The rest is yours.

I've done ceremonies with the vows first and the welcome later. I've signed the paperwork before anyone arrived, so the ceremony could end on the kiss. I've built whole ceremonies around a grandmother who couldn't stand for long, or a child who needed to be part of it, or a dog with firm opinions about timing.

If the standard order doesn't suit you, say so. It bends.

If you're getting married this season

If you're in the final stretch of planning a wedding in Morrinsville, Hamilton, Cambridge, Matamata or anywhere across the Waikato, and you've got questions you think are too silly to ask — ask them. I promise I've heard them, and the answer is almost always "yes, that's completely normal."

No pressure and no hard sell. Just a cuppa and a conversation about your day.

With aroha,

Kathryn x