A white dress. Tears in people’s eyes. Every tiny detail planned in advance — and still, that one little thing that goes off script and somehow makes the day even more perfect. That is a wedding.

Even when the preparation is chaotic, there is something about the buzz, the emotions, the unexpected moments — it all turns into magic. And even if you aren't the “big wedding” type, it is hard not to get swept up in someone else's fairytale — especially when it feels real.

That is exactly what Noor Taan — the sustainable artist and founder of "Life of Loofah" — allowed us to experience. She opened the door and gave us a glimpse into the beautiful wedding with her husband, Karim: a celebration full of love, steeped in Arabic tradition, and rooted in her homeland, Lebanon.

And trust me — it was unforgettable. This is the story, told in her own words.

In our culture, family plays a huge role in every major milestone — and proposals are no exception. In Lebanon, tradition still holds weight, and it is customary for the man to meet the bride’s father before anything else. That cultural detail mattered to us too.

Karim, my husband, took it seriously. He arranged a one-on-one with my dad to ask for his blessing. He imagined a formal sit-down at a smart restaurant — so he dressed the part, ready for a serious conversation. But my dad, being the chillest man alive, had other ideas. He told Karim, “Let’s meet at M. Sherif Deli,” a casual spot we love. So Karim swapped his shirt for a T-shirt and met him there — over shawarma. There were no big speeches or awkward questions, just a warm, honest chat and a simple blessing. It was casual, genuine, and very “us.”

As for the proposal itself — it was incredibly personal. Karim and I had met in April, and by July 27, he proposed. Four months might sound fast, but with him, everything felt certain. Strangely enough, the moment I met his mother — who reminded me so much of myself — I knew I would be part of this family.

Early in our relationship, I had sent Karim a photo of a tree in the mountains of Dhour El Choueir, where I spent summers playing with my cousins. That tree represented something sacred to me — a symbol of joy, freedom, and belonging. Karim decided that would be the place he would propose.

He reached out to my brother (funny enough, he is also Karim) and asked for help finding the exact spot. They spent hours searching the mountains until they finally found it.

Then came the plan. They told me we were going on a short hike, and I went along, completely unaware. I wasn’t exactly looking my best — I had just come from a massage, my hair was oily, and I was in no mood to climb a mountain — but none of that mattered. Because what happened next was one of the most meaningful moments of my life.

Overall, we took a year to prepare for the main wedding. But along the way, there were a series of smaller, deeply meaningful celebrations that made the whole journey even more special.

We began with an engagement dinner at Casablanca — a cosy little restaurant in Beirut that I have always loved. It was intimate, nostalgic, and felt exactly right.

Not long after, we hosted a family lunch in the mountains, near the spot where Karim had proposed. It was the first time both families came together, and there was something symbolic about it — like the beginning of something real taking shape.

Next came the tolbé — a traditional gathering where the groom’s family formally visits the bride’s family to ask for her hand. Traditionally, the groom’s father would say something like, “We would like your daughter to become the wife of our son,” and the bride’s father would respond with a blessing. In our case, it was a little more relaxed. Karim’s dad gave a lovely, heartfelt speech, and my father — who is famously low-key — simply nodded and said, “Welcome, everyone.” It was both funny and heart-warming, one of those little moments you remember forever.

After months of celebrations and gatherings, we held our religious ceremony — known as Katb el-Kitab — in December, surrounded by our closest friends and family.

Katb el-Kitab is the moment when the marriage becomes official in both religious and legal terms. The couple signs a marriage contract in front of a sheikh or imam, who officiates the ceremony. In the days leading up to it, both our families spent Christmas together, which made it feel all the more personal.

It was a deeply emotional time — Lebanon had just experienced a bombing, and everything felt unstable. But I was absolutely certain of one thing: I was getting married in Lebanon, no matter what. Even if it meant under the bombs. I wanted to be with my people, on our land, just as our parents had done before us, through the wars of their own time.

And in the end, everything came together. After the religious ceremony, we celebrated with a sunset yacht party in Dubai — an event by the sea in Almaza Bay, with my brother DJing from start to finish. It was joyful, wild, and the perfect contrast to everything we had been through.

Our wedding was on July 10, but I had already started planning my main dress back in September. I wanted something truly special, and it mattered to me that the designer was a Lebanese woman — someone I could connect with on a personal level. That is when I found Rebecca, who designs under the brand “Thyme” (Zaatar) — she was exactly what I had been looking for: natural, intuitive, full of life. And the moment we met, it simply clicked.

We began fittings in December, when I came home from Dubai, and continued in June, just a month before the wedding. The dress actually evolved throughout the night — people kept asking if I had changed, but I hadn’t. It was a transformation piece.

By day, it had a soft, almost Cinderella-like quality. By night, it became more dramatic — sparkling, bold, full of movement. In classic Lebanese style, it was one dress with many lives. I also wore a custom headpiece from Aura, made especially for me — delicate, thoughtful, and completely my own.

And one of my favourite memories? Both Karim’s mum and mine came with me to the fittings. It is rare to have that moment shared, and it made the whole experience even more special.

Lebanese weddings really are something else — especially when it comes to the number of guests. Abroad, a wedding with 80 people might feel quite large. But in Lebanon, the average number of guests is usually closer to 600. There is no such thing as a limit — people invite everyone: the hairdresser, the hairdresser’s family, the neighbour’s cousin. It is simply part of the culture.

But we wanted to genuinely feel the presence of every person there — not just glance at unfamiliar faces on the dance floor. So we kept it to around 250 to 300 guests, which is considered modest by local standards.

Another cultural tradition is that the guest list isn't just made by the couple — it is a family affair. And rightly so. A wedding is not only about the bride and groom; it is also a moment of pride for the parents. Naturally, they want their closest friends to be part of it.

But we had one clear rule: only invite people who truly love us — and who we truly love in return. We also gave both families a rough guest limit, just to keep things from feeling overwhelming.

The result? A guest list full of warmth and intention. People flew in from over 30 countries. And you could feel it — every single person was there because they truly wanted to be, and that energy shaped the entire day.

We started planning about a year before the wedding, and the preparation was a true team effort. My husband, Karim, who works in food and beverage, took part in decisions regarding the venue and the menu. The rest was mostly handled by me and his mother, Yasmine. We tried not to overwhelm him with things like “white or pink tablecloths,” but when I did ask, he surprisingly had strong opinions!

We were interested in three venues — but the moment we stepped onto the one, we just knew. It was completely raw: open land, rocky terrain, no lighting, no stage, no setup. Everything had to be built from scratch. It wasn’t the easy route, but it gave us full creative freedom to build something that felt completely our own.

We were also lucky to work with one of the best wedding planners in Lebanon — Neiman Azzi — who also happens to be very close to Karim’s mum. Their families have worked together for years: Karim’s grandmother owns “Heart to Heart”, one of the most iconic Lebanese gift and event setup companies, which has been around for over 50 years. Because of that connection, Neiman was truly emotionally invested. It wasn’t just another wedding to him — it felt personal. And from the moment we met, we just clicked.

The decoration was all candles and flowers — nothing excessive or overdone. I wanted it to feel warm, meaningful, and like me — simple but full of intention. We also built a loofah altar right in the middle of the rocks — something I made especially for the wedding.

July wasn’t just about one night — it was an entire wedding week. We had something planned each day: a sunset welcome party, the wedding itself, an after-party, and a brunch the following morning.

Why so many events? Because our guests flew in from all over — Mexico City, Rio, Montreal, the United States. And for me, it wasn’t enough that they simply came to the wedding. I wanted them to experience Lebanon. That felt like my responsibility — to share the country I love with the people I love.

Making each guest feel cared for was a big priority. So we went all in:

I am German-Lebanese, and Karim is Lebanese-American who was born and raised in the United States. So while we added some modern touches — like cutting the cake at the start of the ceremony, filming fun content, and making a dance video with my friends — we also held on to plenty of beautiful Lebanese traditions.

Here they are: