When I was a kid, celebrations of all kinds – birthdays, holidays, you name it – meant complete takeovers of party halls, public playgrounds or someone’s home. You would see all your tios, cousins, godparents and friends. A delicious Dominican food spread including arroz con gandules, tostones, pastelitos, and pollo guisado was guaranteed. Special occasions were big reunions for my family and other Latino friends growing up in Brooklyn.
Weddings, on the other hand, were something I had mostly seen from afar. My mom and my tías all had small weddings in the Dominican Republic and early 2000s, so I grew up knowing what traditional weddings meant culturally, but didn’t experience them myself. I thought Latino weddings looked like what I saw in novelas — think Thalía in Marimar and María La Del Barrio; or Betty La Fea — where brides walked down church aisles in their huge gowns, surrounded by rows of church pews filled with family and community.
In the 2010s, I took wedding planning notes from magazines, Latina content creators and influencers. Large and lavish weddings at historic venues, haciendas, beach clubs and resorts went straight to my inspiration moodboard. To have a small celebration felt contradictory to everything I had seen about Latino weddings.
When it was finally my turn to tie the knot, I proved to myself that having a microwedding didn’t make me any less Latina. In fact, having a smaller, destination wedding in my mom’s homeland helped me honor my roots in a more intentional, authentic way. As my husband and I stood at the altar with the sun beaming down on us and the Caribbean sea breeze blowing through our hair, we lovingly looked out at a crowd of 22 guests. Our bridesmaids and groomsmen stood by our sides, bringing the total number of people who had traveled to the Dominican Republic to celebrate with us to 35 people.
Microweddings aren’t as common as traditionally large weddings among Latinos. Our cultures are known for throwing big parties. From baby showers to quinceañeras and so on, it’s common for families to spend thousands of dollars to host milestone celebrations with large guest lists complete with extended family members, friends and other community members. Weddings are often no different.
Just scroll through Latino Wedding TikTok and you’ll see just how much our communities love to celebrate. There are live bands, jaw-dropping venues, and stunning wedding looks that go beyond the bride and groom – guests show up dressed to impress, too. Food and drinks are always at the center, with traditional dishes woven into the celebration. And for many Latinos who still honor Catholic traditions, factor in a church ceremony and a second stop at the reception. These details aren’t just about spectacle, they are expressions of pride, joy and culture. I always imagined my dream wedding would include many of those elements, but choosing a microwedding allowed us to scale things down and truly appreciate those details with just our closest family and friends.
Deciding to have a microwedding wasn’t easy. I had moments of doubt, worrying I would disappoint friends and relatives who couldn’t make it, or that I would regret not having a big celebration. In Latino families, weddings aren’t just about the couple; it’s as much a community celebration as it is a family and personal one. I started to second-guess myself when 15 people on our guest list RSVP’d “no.” Still, even in the uncertainty, I realized that scaling down didn’t mean losing tradition, it meant reshaping it.
Somewhere between an elopement and a big traditional wedding lies the microwedding: usually no more than 50 guests, but no less meaningful or complicated to plan. I first heard the term back in 2020, when the pandemic gave many couples no other option but to celebrate with small, intimate gatherings. Yet microweddings didn’t just arise as a pandemic trend. Some consider it a type of “recession indicator.” Jessica Bishop, founder of The Budget Savvy Bride, says many couples turned to microweddings during the 2008 recession to save money without sacrificing celebration. In 2025, that reality continues to ring true.
My husband and I completely self-funded our wedding, so we wanted to make every dollar count. Just days before we printed our save-the-dates in June 2024, I was laid off due to organizational structuring. Despite this terrible news, I felt relief in knowing we had already reached our wedding savings goal. We had set a clear budget early on and were determined to stick to it.
According to Zola, the average wedding in 2026 costs around $36,000. Our goal was to spend about half that, a challenge that felt nearly impossible in New York, where the average price tag is closer to $47,800. After touring a few resorts in the Dominican Republic, where most of my family is from, we found the perfect balance: a mid-sized resort in Punta Cana that let us celebrate meaningfully without breaking the bank.
We chose the Dominican Republic because it felt important to honor my roots. Growing up, my family spent summers in our small town in El Cibao, and those memories have always grounded me. I hadn’t visited a resort until 2011, when my family took me to celebrate my high school graduation — a special experience since, coming from the countryside, resorts were usually reserved for big occasions. Getting married surrounded by the language, the warmth, and my family back in our homeland felt incredibly meaningful. It was also the perfect way to introduce my Ecuadorian husband’s family to my family’s island. Knowing that destination weddings are a big investment of time and money, I wanted our guests to feel like they were getting a beautiful vacation out of the experience, too.
Having a smaller wedding meant we could focus on the people and details that made the day feel intentional. In honor of my grandmother, who couldn’t travel for the wedding, I sought out florals reminiscent of her vivid, lush front yard filled with hibiscus, orchids, anthuriums, and bird of paradise to place throughout our celebrations. Every gift, scent, and song carried meaning, which in turn was a reflection of our love and our roots.
While wearing my Cultura Confetti “Novia” headband, my husband and I filled welcome jute gift bags with Taste Salud agua fresca electrolyte mixes to keep everyone hydrated, Untamed Naturals bug spray to enjoy our time outdoors, Ceremonia’s guava perfume mist and hair ties for a tropical touch, and a small Dominican flag. I indulged in some luxury beauty items I had tested and selected to help me feel like myself in the Caribbean heat: Estée Lauder’s tried & true Double Wear Foundation, MAC Cosmetics’ MacStack Volumizing Mascara, and Le Labo’s Lys 41, a sweet white floral scent that blended beautifully with the salty sea breeze. For me, beauty isn’t just about aesthetics or how expensive an item is, it’s about the tradition of self-care and the joy of self-expression.
We infused Dominican traditions into every part of the celebration, starting with a merengue típico band during cocktail hour. The three-person group, featuring the accordion, güira, and tambora, filled the air with the fast-paced rhythms of perico ripiao, a sound native to my family’s Cibao region. The music kept the vibes high as we snapped photos on the beach before the reception officially kicked off. As the golden hour light poured over our reception area, my husband and I surprised our family and friends with a choreographed salsa dance to Bad Bunny’s “BAILE INoLVIDABLE.”
Every part of our wedding day reflected who we are: a blend of cultures, traditions, and love. In the end, what I previously worried about feeling “too small” ended up feeling even more expansive and full of meaning, cultural connection, and pride. It brought me closer to the people who have shaped my life and allowed my husband and I to celebrate our love in a way that felt authentic to who we are. Though our wedding was intimate, we had so much space to honor our celebration of love. I hope other couples feel empowered to also plan a celebration that’s true to them: full of love and rooted in where they come from.