When I was pregnant, I wrestled my wedding ring off my swollen finger before it constricted the blood supply. Post-baby, I regained normal human hands but, four years later, I still haven’t put the ring back on.

Wearing a wedding ring has a symbolic meaning for many people, but it never did for me. When I got married, I was swept up in the big day and went along with all of the traditions – the white dress, the church wedding and my father to walk me down the aisle (even though we never set foot in a church apart from at Christmas). And I started wearing a wedding ring too – even though I have always hated jewellery. 

It’s not just rings: I want to rip earrings out of my lobes and the thought of a locket around my neck brings me out in a cold sweat. There’s something constricting about it. 

So when I took the wedding ring – and engagement ring – off my swollen fingers that hot summer day, it made me ask why I had been wearing them at all; why I felt I had to. 

After all, my husband, Martin*, has never worn a wedding ring. He says jewellery isn’t for men. Lots of men feel the same so I’d never minded. 

I’d always considered myself a feminist, but I really never saw the hypocrisy in it until that moment. Suddenly I realised that by wearing a ring myself, I was his possession on some level. And the more I thought about it, the more it niggled me.  

Suddenly it was simple: I love my husband with or without a wedding ring. I hate wearing jewellery. So I will leave it in my drawer and not put it back on. 

Martin was slightly surprised when I told him but said he didn’t mind. He’s one of those men who rarely expresses his emotions so he would never admit to caring about something this superficial, even if he did. 

Still, I was convinced that he was secretly hurt so I raised it a few more times. He just shrugged and said it was up to me. 

But one person who did mind was my mother-in-law. Shortly after I had removed my ring, we were having lunch at her house when her eyes flicked to my left hand. Her lips puckered and she stared at my bare ring finger. She said nothing until Martin had left the room, then she demanded to know why I wasn’t wearing it. 

‘Martin isn’t wearing his ring,’ I pointed out. 

‘It’s different for men,’ she replied sharply. 

I pretended not to notice her disapproval; my mother-in-law still lives in a time where it’s effeminate for a man to wear a ring but if a woman doesn’t it’s shocking. Today she still makes jibes, but I don’t care. It’s none of her business. 

My married friends are also surprisingly vocal – they all wear rings so discussing it can get awkward. You wouldn’t believe how often people feel the need to comment, and my reasons for not wearing it seem to offend them. So these days, if it comes up, I change the subject. 

What’s most surprising of all is that my marriage actually feels stronger since I removed my ring. Martin and I have to explain so often that we aren’t divorcing, it makes us actually think about whether we are happy. And, generally, we are. 

The giddiness of the wedding day has inevitably died down six years and three kids on, but we still enjoy each other’s company and, if anything, love each other even more with the shared experience of parenting. 

Even so, I suspect some people think I took off my ring because, deep down, I’m not fully committed to Martin. They couldn’t be more wrong. Rings say nothing about the state of your marriage. And I, for one, don’t need a ring to prove I’m a loyal and loving wife.