When I told my family and friends that I was planning to marry myself, my gran, who has since passed away, said: “Oh, you always think of something new, Grace.”

My parents, who are very open-minded, also took it in their stride. They’d got used to my attraction to the wild and the wacky. “As long as it makes you happy, Grace, we’re fine with it,” was their reaction.

And although I’m pretty sure a lot of my friends weren’t convinced that I would go through with it, those I initially confided in thought it was a great idea and were really supportive.

A few did comment, in a light-hearted way, that it was a bit narcissitic. Obviously, if you’ve just announced you’re marrying yourself, it is plainly a statement of self-love, and I was under no illusion how self-indulgent that might appear. But I was completely comfortable with my motivations.

Not that I could say with any certainty how exactly I’d found myself in the rather surreal scenario of proposing to myself on a park bench on Parliament Hill last November.

I do, however, have a strong recollection of when I was 18 at university and studying performance art, hearing that line in a Björk song called Isobel: “My name’s Isobel, married to myself,” and thinking, crazy as that sounds, I totally get that. It’s about making this pact or promise to yourself and then somehow enacting that in how you live your life from that day on.

More recently, I’d been on a journey of personal development using meditation, dance and performance to increase my self-awareness.

Included in this was a Shakti Tantra programme focused on sexuality and how this was bound up with making agreements with yourself and other people.

Sitting on that park bench, it dawned on me that a self-marriage ceremony witnessed by other people would potentially be this massively powerful means of making those agreements stick.

As with all these things, however, timing is crucial. I’d been essentially single for almost six years and built up this brilliant relationship with myself. Nevertheless, I was aware of getting into a rut, where a relationship with someone else seemed like too much hard work. So I really wanted to pay tribute to this adventurous period of self-discovery but, at the same time, look forward to a new phase.

But how to proceed? One of my really close friends, Tiu, is a truly wise and wonderful woman and she had just completed her training as a celebrant.

Naturally, I went straight to her asking her to assist with planning the day and leading the ceremony. It was to be her first marriage, let alone self-marriage, so that made it a momentous occasion for both of us.

Throughout the whole process from the engagement announcement in November to the ceremony in mid-March, Tiu was this subtle combination of secular cleric, counsellor and friend who managed to maintain the boundaries between each.

But then, in February this year, with only a month to go before the wedding, doubts began to creep in. I found myself asking, why was I really doing this? Was it just some vainglorious stunt?

But Tiu kept me on track, reiterating how this event, a kind of performance we had co-created, was going to set me up for a new phase of my life.

I sent out an email invite without giving much thought as to how many people might show up. So when, a month later, I walked into a big airy room of an idyllic farmhouse in rural Devon – a kindly donation by some friends – I couldn’t believe it. I was met by what felt like a sea of beaming faces. There were almost 50 people present when I had been expecting 20 at most.

Mainly for logistical reasons, my sister was the only member of my family who came. But my mum and dad did send me supportive texts throughout the day.

Although we’d planned a lot of it, some elements were kept deliberately open and quite last-minute.

Grace Gelder on her wedding day. Photograph: Amy Grubb

The dress – a vintage number from a local market – was perfect but something I’d only chanced upon a couple of days before.

Just sitting there in the room and thinking, “Wow, all these people have come all this way today to celebrate me marrying myself!” was very humbling.

Some things, however, were set in stone: the ring, obviously, and the vows. Having these traditional elements was important as they gave the occasion a necessary gravitas.

It felt like a really big deal saying my vows, which were mostly about me promising to take more risks in matters of the heart. I remember really paying attention to the words as they left my mouth and it felt like they were hanging in the air.

Equally, the ring, a less spontaneous purchase than the dress, brought home to me this idea of commitment, sealing the deal if you like.

The day was obviously centred on me, the final event being a mirror for me to kiss, but it also felt like I was sharing something very special with my friends, giving everyone an opportunity to reflect on their own ideas of love and commitment.

I had one friend in her 50s who said it was one of the best weddings she’d ever been to. I got an immense sense of satisfaction from that. It told me that we had somehow pulled it off, that we’d made sense of it all.

Some female acquaintances have told me that I’m an example to women, but I say: “Why not an example to men too?”

I really don’t see it as any kind of feminist statement, but creating a wedding of this kind on my own terms felt incredibly empowering.

My self-married status – meaningless though it may remain in the eyes of the law – has also given me this great sense of clarity. I seem to sense much more clearly than before if something is worth pursuing or best left alone.

And just because I married myself, it doesn’t mean that I’m not open to the idea of sharing a wedding with someone else one day.

gracegelder.co.uk (This website contains nudity)

tiuthecelebrant.com