by Sean Lowe
“Should I quit?” I asked. Dancing with the Stars was a huge financial blessing for us. “Should I walk away from the show—and our income—to make sure you have peace of mind? Is it even right for you to ask me to do that?”
“No need for you to quit, because I’m moving back to Seattle,” she said. “I can’t do this anymore. I’m not going to sit in the front row with your mom and dad, while I watch you out there dancing your heart out. It feels like you’ve put this show ahead of our relationship, and I just don’t want to be a part of it anymore. I can’t,” she said. “I won’t.
I was stuck. And it didn’t help that when I finally had the chance to spend time with Catherine, reporters were everywhere.
That’s the thing about Los Angeles. No matter where I went, paparazzi showed up. It was amazing how they could find out our location. Had our government hired the Los Angeles paparazzi to find Osama bin Laden, they would’ve quickly had a multipage spread of candid photos under the headline “Grooming Habits of the World’s Most Wanted.”
Even though our dance studio had tight security, every single day there were six to eight photographers standing outside all day looking for the shots. That didn’t bother me compared to how they hounded me in my off hours. When Catherine and I tried to steal away for dinner, the paparazzi somehow found out and stalked us. Every single time we flew, we were followed by photographers at LAX.
“How do these people know our schedule?” I asked Catherine.
Magazines started publishing those photos, accompanying articles under headlines such as, “Trouble in Paradise?” or, “Are They Gonna Work Out?” Then there was the familiar standby, “Can You Really Find Love on a Reality TV Show?”
When I saw those headlines, I laughed. “Look at this,” I said to Catherine, hoping she’d laugh too. In my heart, however, the magazine headlines really bothered me because they touched on a truth I didn’t want to admit.
Of course, I never shared any of my hesitation or personal doubt with anybody. When reporters asked me about how things were going, I had the same answer. “Don’t believe the rumors. Everything’s great with us.”
And I hoped one day, this would be true again.
About that time, I was invited to be on Jimmy Kimmel. Since I’d been on his show three times, I was excited to be invited again. Jimmy’s great, and I love his sense of humor. When I got there, the producers prepped me beforehand.
“Now, Jimmy might bring up the ‘virgin bachelor’ thing,” one producer said. “So be ready.”
“Really?” I said. “I figured he might want to talk about Dancing with the Stars.”
“We don’t know,” he said. “Jimmy sometimes goes his own direction. You can’t predict what he’ll say.”
When I went on stage, sex—or lack of it—was the only thing Jimmy wanted to talk about. Since I’d expected a light, fun show, I tried to laugh along with him. In my head, though, I was thinking, Come on, man, really?
He didn’t relent. Like everyone else, he couldn’t believe that we had decided to wait until marriage for sex. But unlike everyone else, he had me on live television grilling me over the topic. Again and again and again.
Catherine smiled from her place in the fifth row, but I wondered how long those fake smiles could last.
I was quiet when I left the show. No one would’ve made jokes—or even found it noteworthy—had I been some sort of playboy, bedding women left and right. But once I said I wanted to live by basic Christian principles, people thought I was different, weird, and strange.
Matt picked up on my silence really fast. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t know he was going to pound you that whole time.”
But I wasn’t mad at Jimmy. I was mad that no one would give it a rest. Every interview was all about sex, all the time.
When week 7 of DWTS arrived, Peta and I were assigned the rumba, a steamy Cuban dance that demands chemistry. She instructed me, “You have to pretend you’re in love with me.”
“How can I do that when I don’t have romantic feelings toward you?” I asked. My throat tightened. Would this be the week that I’d finally be sent home? It’s hard enough when you are doing the fox-trot. I knew the rumba, designed for lovers, would be hard to pull off.
“I have an idea,” she said. “Let’s get Catherine in here to dance with you. I can watch and see what it looks like when you are dancing with someone you love. Then, maybe we can fake it onstage when it’s you and me.”
Every part of me knew this was a bad idea, but I had no other options. Now that Catherine and I were having a few relationship issues ourselves, would she be willing to come in and try to dance with me? I had no other option but to ask, and—to my surprise—she agreed.
When Catherine arrived at the studio, she gave me a kiss. I could tell she was very uncomfortable. Suddenly, she was in a studio surrounded by people she didn’t know. I, however, was in my element. I knew the studio, producers, dancers, and sound techs well. This rehearsal was a case of two worlds colliding, and it was hard for everyone.
“Okay, so let me see you two dance,” Peta said. There’s nothing worse than being told to be romantic on cue—especially with the undercurrent of unhappiness bubbling right under the surface. We made it through the awkward rehearsal.
And honestly, Peta’s gimmick to get me to practice with Catherine actually worked. Holding Catherine in my arms made everything feel right in the world. Even though it was a tough time, I knew we were meant to be.
When it came time to perform, I was a ball of nerves. However, I glanced out in the audience. Catherine smiled and waved, trying to be as supportive as possible. When it was all over, the judges said my performance was great, and pointed out—once again—that I’d improved. Though I was up against a lot of naturally athletic people and others involved in show business, I felt like I was holding my own. At least I was out there giving it a try. And so, I lived to dance another day. But at what cost to our fragile, new relationship?
The next week, it felt like the world sat on my shoulders. Not only had my relationship with Catherine strained past the point of comfort, but I also had to learn two dances. I always had trouble remembering all the steps, so we had to practice more than twice as much. By the end of the week, I had every foot placement down pat. I took a deep breath when we went out onto the floor. But when the music started, I simply forgot what I was supposed to be doing. After I messed up our first dance, I was a head case.
“I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry,” I said to Peta. “I screwed it up.”
“Just forget it,” she said. “It’ll be okay. We’ve got another dance to perform.”
But my head swirled. I couldn’t shake that first dance from my head. It didn’t help that I felt like I was disappointing Catherine with every step.
The second dance started with a very basic sequence. The theme was magic, and I was supposed to walk through the middle of the two professional dancers after they raised their hands. I was supposed to push their hands down at the very beginning.
When the music started, I simply walked through them—swatting at one of their hands. What was supposed to look powerful ended up looking as though I had a halfhearted desire to kill a passing fly. I paused, for a fraction of a second, confused at what just happened. Of course, there’s no chance to stop the music and start all over. The music kept going, and I kept moving. Inside, I was stunned. One of the judges told me that my performance was “magic” and “tragic”—an insult that definitely seemed preplanned but was pretty accurate.
It was enough to send me home.
When I got booted the following night, I missed out on the fifty-thousand-dollar bonus. However, it was a small price to pay to get our relationship out of the Dancing with the Stars pressure cooker.
Toward the end of the show, I didn’t have time to do anything except dance. I’d wake up, dance, get home, and go to bed—I just danced, danced, danced, with an occasional argument with Catherine squeezed in. Even though I�
�d been booted off the show, we still had our apartments at the Palazzo and—suddenly—lots of free time. We spent that time enjoying each other, going on dates, and taking the dogs to the park.
On the first Monday after I got eliminated, the last thing I wanted to do was go back to the show.
“Aren’t we going to see the episode?” Catherine asked.
“I figured you needed a break,” I said.
“No,” she said. “I’ve made friends with those guys. We have to see them.”
And so, at Catherine’s urging, we were in the audience for the final two episodes.
What you don’t see at home is the way the DWTS producers insist that the crowd go nuts with applause every five seconds. As we sat in the audience, clapping for our friends, I felt something change. The unbelievable pressure lifted, and everything felt light and carefree. Suddenly, the show—which had felt like such a threat—felt nice. Fun, even. By making it to week 8, I had been able to secure some money to help us get started in our marriage. Also, any fears Catherine had about our relationship seemed to disappear.
Without the added pressure of a television show, Catherine and I began to understand each other and how we handled conflict. For example, I internalized things. When I had a problem, I liked to go away by myself, think about it, and get over it. This, of course, drove Catherine crazy. During a conflict, I’d say, “I’m out of here” and walk down to Starbucks.
Of course, she couldn’t imagine why I’d walk away in the middle of conflict, when she wanted to talk it through. It took us a bit to discover that what’s healthy for me—walking away for time to think—was not healthy for her. Learning how to resolve conflict together was key to learning about each other. Plus, I realized some of my actions were disrespectful to her even though I didn’t intend them to be.
I never quite understood why DWTS affected Catherine so much at the time and—like an idiot—I’d always argue with her about the subject. I realized with regret that I should have at least tried to be sympathetic to her. She gave up the life she knew and loved for me, and all I could seem to do was get frustrated with her when she needed me the most.
That summer in California turned out to be an important time for us. Matt got me good-paying gigs that allowed us to stay in Los Angeles and develop a life for ourselves. We’d walk to Starbucks every morning and watch Netflix on the couch in the evenings. Our refreshing summer allowed us to leave everything else behind and grow together as a couple. It was finally just the two of us, instead of the two of us plus several million at-home viewers.
Funny how the removal of cameras caused our relationship to grow in leaps and bounds. During our time in California, we had morning Bible studies together after our Starbucks run. It was a wonderful time of learning about each other. Eventually, however, we had to go back to spend time with family, to look for a place to live after we got married, and to prepare for . . . What was it again? Oh right.
The wedding.
seventeen
THE BIG DAY
It came time for Catherine and me to leave California. Though we were sad to say good-bye to that part of our lives, we were happy to start the next phase: marriage. We figured there was no better way to commemorate the transition than with a good, old-fashioned road trip.
We got in the car with our belongings, a full tank of gas, and lots of wedding details to discuss. During our four-day, fifteen-hundred-mile trip to Texas, we had amazing stops at the Grand Canyon and then Albuquerque. We found the Big Texan Steak Ranch in Amarillo that gave customers a seventy-two-ounce steak if they could eat it within one hour. To my surprise, Catherine pulled that off. Yes, Catherine. You’ve heard of my vegan fiancée from Seattle? She didn’t stay vegan for long after we got together. While I respected her beliefs and wasn’t trying to change her, I think eating meat and protein is a much healthier way of life. I introduced her to Sagi, my nutritionist and trainer, who helped her formulate a healthful lifestyle. It included meat, which meant our road trip had many fun adventures and a couple of gigantic steaks.
It was refreshing to be in Texas again. When we got to Dallas, Catherine and her sister moved into a home about a mile and a half away from my loft. She’d live there until the wedding, the theme of which Catherine had decided.
Grown Sexy.
Though I have no idea where she came up with that phrase, it meant she wanted our wedding to be “sophisticated, but with an air of sexiness.” Millions of people were about to weigh in on the topic of “Grown Sexy,” because we decided to let The Bachelor televise our wedding. We didn’t decide to broadcast the ceremony for the sake of being on television.
“It’s sort of like your series was a good book,” Mary Kate said. “Your wedding could be the final chapter.”
We were honored ABC wanted to be a part of it. Our relationship began and developed on television. Plus, we loved the people associated with The Bachelor and wanted them to be a part of the wedding as well. In fact, we got to work with Ronald again. Every time I saw the executive producer, I smiled. I couldn’t help but think back to the night before the proposal, when he gave me advice on women and marriage.
“We want this to be about you and Catherine,” he said. “This is your wedding. If there’s something that makes you feel uncomfortable, tell us. You give us ideas about how you want the wedding. It’s your wedding; we just want to capture it.”
Chris Harrison, who became an ordained minister when producers Mary Kate and Travis tied the knot, did an amazing job with their wedding. However, there were many ordained ministers in my family who would have to take precedence over Chris. I believe a wedding is a covenant between God and us. Even though it is unusual to make that covenant on national television in front of millions of people watching from home, it seemed like a fitting way to begin our lives together as a married couple. I heard rumors that people were worried that televising our wedding might cheapen the experience—including my dad.
“What do you think Sean’s gonna do about the minister?” Dad asked my mom. I’d heard he was concerned about the whole thing. Little did he know we had a surprise for him.
Though my dad is an insurance salesman, he had gotten ordained to perform my cousin’s wedding. In my mind, there was never really a question. My dad’s dad had married my parents, and I wanted Dad to marry us.
One Monday, I told my parents that the show was going to film at our house, because we wanted to capture the moment when we asked our niece and nephew to be the flower girl and the ring bearer. In reality, we were staging the whole thing to surprise Dad.
“I feel like I know how to be a good husband to Catherine,” I said as we sat outside talking to my family. “And that’s mainly because of the way you raised me.”
“Thanks, Sean,” Dad said. “That means a lot. Bringing Catherine into this family has been the easiest thing in the whole wide world. She’s so easy to love.” Then he turned to Catherine and said, “In fact, we might like you more than we like Sean!”
“We were hoping you would officiate the wedding,” I said.
“Seriously?” he asked a few times as my invitation registered in his mind. “I’m very honored. Yes, I would love that. To be on that launchpad is something special. Thank you for asking me. Thank you.”
Dad was deeply touched by the invitation. Any fears that this wouldn’t be a real wedding were put to rest. “Dad,” I said, “I couldn’t think of a more godly man to conduct the ceremony. You have had such a powerful and positive influence on my life.” Then I added, “But you’ll have to hold it together during the ceremony.”
“There’s no chance of that,” Catherine said.
“You guys tell me what you want me to say,” he said, “and I’ll make sure it’s just how you want it.”
Catherine quickly stopped that line of thinking. “No, we trust you. We don’t have to tell you what to say, because you’ll do something wonderful.”
“Well, you guys are easy to talk about.” Then he choked bac
k tears and said, “It’ll mean a lot to me for the rest of my life.”
After we got settled in Dallas, I could finally introduce Catherine to my church. My pastor said one time, “The best financial decision you can make for your future is not ever getting divorced.” I always have said I’m only getting married once, so his comment—and many other comments about marriage—stuck with me. Catherine and I went through premarital counseling at my church, which allowed us to talk through issues that hadn’t come up during our whirlwind, unconventional romance. That’s what people don’t understand. Though I proposed after only ten weeks, Catherine and I were engaged for fourteen months. During that time, we had a chance to solidify our feelings and prepare well for a lifetime together.
During this time, Catherine decided to be baptized, which is when a believer is submerged in water to symbolize dying to oneself and coming up a new creation. This is a big act—a public declaration of faith—and I was touched that Catherine asked my dad to baptize her. She and Laura were baptized one Sunday, at my home church at Plymouth Park Baptist Church in Irving, Texas. It was a beautiful moment, and I was so glad to see Catherine growing in her faith. In fact, her enthusiasm for faith encouraged me in mine.
I never pressured her into becoming a Christian. She’s an independent woman with very strong ideas of her own. I also wasn’t heavy handed about the no-sex-until-marriage thing. It was my deeply held conviction. Over time, it became Catherine’s conviction as well, especially as she dug deeper into God’s Word.
I hated that reporters dragged her into conversations about it all the time. For example, about three months after the proposal, Catherine and I were on Good Morning, America. The “virgin bachelor” conversation had gone on for months, and I just wasn’t in the mood when I was asked about it yet again.
“Why do you think the media has asked so much about your decision to wait until marriage?”