In a world where traditional relationships and marriage are often viewed as life milestones, Antoine Cheval, a French man, has taken a bold and unconventional step by marrying himself. After experiencing numerous failed relationships and repeated rejections to his marriage proposals, Antoine, who identifies as a “sologamist,” chose to commit to the most important relationship in his life: the one with himself.
Who is Antoine Cheval?
Antoine Cheval is a French individual who, following years of personal challenges and heartbreak, made the radical decision to marry himself. His embrace of sologamy—also known as autogamy—emerged as a response to repeated romantic disappointments. By choosing to marry himself, Antoine made a profound statement about self-love and personal worth. His self-marriage ceremony included all the traditional trappings: vows, a reception, and guests, symbolizing his commitment to living authentically and on his own terms.
Antoine’s journey is part of a broader trend where people around the world are exploring self-marriage as a way to affirm their independence, self-worth, and emotional fulfillment. He sees his act not just as personal, but as a challenge to societal norms surrounding love and relationships.
What is Sologamy?
Sologamy, or self-marriage, is the act of committing to oneself in a ceremony that symbolizes self-love and independence. While it lacks the legal standing of traditional marriage, sologamy is a symbolic gesture that underscores a person’s dedication to their own happiness and well-being. Practitioners of sologamy often view it as a celebration of self-empowerment and a way to prioritize their personal growth.
Critics argue that self-marriage is purely symbolic and does not confer the legal or social benefits of traditional marriage. Supporters, however, see it as a powerful affirmation of self-worth and a rejection of societal pressures to find validation through others. For many, marrying oneself represents a commitment to personal happiness, emotional health, and independence.
Self-Marriage Celebrations
Self-marriage ceremonies often mirror traditional weddings, complete with vows, guests, a reception, and even a wedding cake. Some individuals also undergo counseling or personal reflection to prepare for the emotional commitment of marrying themselves. These ceremonies provide an opportunity to reflect on past relationships, embrace self-love, and move forward with confidence.
While often associated with affluent women in the 21st century, sologamy is not limited to one gender or demographic. People from various backgrounds have embraced the practice, viewing it as a way to prioritize self-care and redefine what it means to be fulfilled.
Notable Examples of Sologamy
Antoine Cheval is not the only person to make headlines for marrying himself. In 2014, British photographer Sophie Tanner celebrated her self-marriage with a ceremony attended by friends and family. Tanner explained that she wanted to honor herself as an independent woman, free from societal expectations.
In 2017, Italian fitness trainer Laura M married herself following a divorce, citing the act as a means of reclaiming her identity and empowerment. Her ceremony included traditional wedding elements, symbolizing a fresh start and a renewed commitment to herself.
In 2022, Kshama Bindu, a woman from Gujarat, India, became the country’s first known sologamist. She married herself in a traditional Hindu ceremony, complete with cultural rituals, after deciding she didn’t need a partner to experience the joy of being a bride. Bindu, who identifies as bisexual, described her self-marriage as an act of self-love and a challenge to societal norms.
Self-Love and Personal Empowerment
The rise of sologamy challenges conventional ideas of love and relationships by emphasizing self-acceptance, independence, and emotional resilience. While not everyone may embrace the concept of self-marriage, it highlights the importance of cultivating a healthy relationship with oneself. By marrying themselves, individuals like Antoine Cheval demonstrate that love doesn’t always have to come from a partner—it can come from within.
Antoine’s story, along with those of others who have embraced sologamy, serves as a reminder that self-love is foundational to personal happiness. Their actions encourage a broader dialogue about the value of prioritizing oneself and finding fulfillment independent of societal expectations.
So, whether or not sologamy resonates with you, it offers an important lesson: loving and valuing yourself can lead to greater empowerment, happiness, and emotional well-being.
“To Antoine Cheval and everyone who dares to put themselves first—may your stories inspire others to embrace their worth, celebrate who they are, and live authentically.” 💍❤️
AT 78, I SOLD EVERYTHING I HAD AND BOUGHT ONE WAY TICKET TO SEE THE LOVE OF MY LIFE – IN THE PLANE, MY DREAM WAS CRUSHED
The worn leather of the suitcase felt rough against my trembling hands. Forty years. Forty years of regret, of guilt gnawing at my soul. Forty years since I had last seen Elizabeth, the love of my life. Forty years since my own stupidity had torn us apart.
I glanced at the address scribbled on a crumpled piece of paper, my heart pounding a frantic rhythm against my ribs. 123 Maple Street, Willow Creek, Ohio. It felt like a destination in a dream, a place I had only ever dared to imagine.
The plane ride was a blur. My mind raced, a whirlwind of memories and “what ifs.” What would she look like now? Would she still have that mischievous glint in her eyes, that infectious laugh that used to fill our small apartment? Would she recognize me, this old man, weathered by time and regret?
As the plane began its descent, a wave of dizziness washed over me. I gripped the armrests, my knuckles white. My chest felt tight, a burning sensation spreading through my lungs. Voices, muffled and distant, seemed to come from far away.
“Sir, are you alright?”
I tried to respond, but only a strangled gasp escaped my lips. The world tilted, then plunged into darkness.
When I awoke, I was in a sterile white room, the smell of antiseptic filling my nostrils. A blurry image of concerned faces swam into view – a nurse, a doctor, a young woman with kind eyes.
“Where… where am I?” I croaked, my voice weak and raspy.
“You’re at St. Jude’s Hospital, sir,” the young woman said gently. “You suffered a heart attack. You’re lucky to be alive.”
Heart attack. The words echoed in my mind, a stark reminder of my mortality. But a different thought, more urgent, pushed its way to the forefront. Elizabeth.
“Elizabeth,” I rasped, my voice hoarse. “Is she… is she here?”
The young woman hesitated, her eyes filled with a mixture of concern and uncertainty. “I… I don’t know, sir. Who is Elizabeth?”
My heart sank. Had I imagined it? Had the years of loneliness and regret twisted my mind, creating a fantasy, a desperate hope?
Days turned into weeks. I spent my recovery in the hospital, haunted by the uncertainty. The doctors assured me that I was stable, but the fear of losing consciousness again, of never seeing Elizabeth, lingered.
One afternoon, as I sat by the window, watching the world go by, a familiar figure appeared in the doorway. A woman, her hair streaked with silver, her eyes crinkled at the corners. She was more beautiful than I remembered, her face etched with the lines of time, yet her smile was the same, the same smile that had captivated me all those years ago.
“Arthur,” she whispered, her voice trembling.
Tears welled up in my eyes. It was her. Elizabeth.
She rushed towards me, her arms open wide. I held her close, burying my face in her hair, inhaling the scent of lavender, a scent that transported me back to a time of youthful dreams and endless possibilities.
“I never stopped loving you, Arthur,” she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. “I never stopped waiting.”
And in that moment, I knew that despite the years that had passed, despite the pain and the regret, love, true love, had a way of finding its way back home.
As we held each other, the world seemed to melt away. The years of separation, the loneliness, the fear – all of it seemed insignificant compared to the joy of holding her in my arms once more. We had lost so much time, but we still had now. And that, I realized, was all that truly mattered. The worn leather of my suitcase felt rough against my trembling hands. Forty years. Forty years of longing, of regret, of a life lived in a perpetual twilight. Forty years since I had last seen Elizabeth, the love of my life, the woman whose laughter still echoed in the empty chambers of my heart.
I remembered the day vividly. The rain was coming down in sheets, mirroring the storm brewing inside me. We were arguing, a petty disagreement blown out of proportion by youthful pride and stubbornness. I had stormed out, my words echoing in the rain-slicked street. “Fine,” I had spat, “I don’t need you!”
I hadn’t meant it. Not really. But the words hung heavy in the air, a cruel echo of my own anger. I walked for hours, the rain washing away my pride and replacing it with a growing dread. When I finally returned, the lights in our small apartment were off. I called her name, my voice cracking with fear, but there was no answer.
The police found her car abandoned by the river, a chilling testament to the storm that had raged within me. The search parties, the endless waiting, the gnawing uncertainty – it had aged me beyond my years. The vibrant hues of life had faded, replaced by a monotonous grey.
Then, a miracle. A letter, tucked amongst a pile of bills and advertisements, a faded envelope bearing a familiar handwriting. “I’ve been thinking of you,” it read.
The words, simple yet profound, ignited a fire within me. Hope, a fragile ember that had long since been extinguished, flickered back to life. I devoured every letter, each one a precious piece of her, a glimpse into the life she had built. I learned about her children, her grandchildren, her passions, her joys, and her sorrows. And with each letter, the ache in my heart lessened, replaced by a yearning so intense it almost consumed me.
Then, the invitation. “Come,” it read, “Come see me.”
She had included her address.
And so, here I was, 78 years old, sitting on a plane, my hands trembling, my heart pounding like a drum against my ribs. I hadn’t flown in decades. The world outside the window, a blur of clouds and sky, mirrored the chaos within me.
Suddenly, a sharp pain erupted in my chest. I gasped for air, my vision blurring. Voices, distant and muffled, filled my ears. “Sir, are you alright?” “We need to get him some air!”
Panic clawed at my throat. Not now. Not when I was finally this close.
Then, through the haze, I saw her face. Her eyes, the same shade of hazel as mine, wide with concern.
“John?” she whispered, her voice trembling.
And in that moment, time seemed to stand still. The pain, the fear, the decades of longing – they all faded away. All that remained was her. Elizabeth.
Tears welled up in my eyes, blurring her face. But I knew. I knew it was her.
And as I slipped into unconsciousness, I whispered her name, a silent prayer, a love song carried on the wind.
I woke up in a hospital room, the scent of antiseptic filling my nostrils. Elizabeth sat beside me, her hand gently clasped in mine.
“You gave me quite a scare,” she said, her voice soft as a summer breeze.
I managed a weak smile. “I wouldn’t miss this for the world.”
And as I looked at her, at the lines etched on her face, the silver strands in her hair, I knew that this was just the beginning. We had forty years to catch up on, to rediscover the love we had lost. Forty years to make up for the time we had wasted.
And as I held her hand, I knew that this time, nothing would ever tear us apart again.
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