Shedding my name was a big step in letting go of my past. Every time I heard that name aimed at me, it was like fingernails on a chalkboard. It’s a fine name for someone else, just not me.
It was my first name that needed to go. The name I had been called in the house full of anger. The name I carried with me all through school, where I was afraid to make friends – didn’t know how to. It was the name I was called during my first marriage. The marriage that had been a desperate attempt to gain freedom, but in fact was even more constrictive.
I eventually fled the marriage, moved out of state, and changed my name. It seemed the perfect timing – no one knew me. I began using my middle name – a nod to my mostly un-present, but desperately missed father. I was in my early twenties, and single parenting 15-month-old twins. I needed something big to help me shift into my new life. This was it. Nothing official, I simply began sharing it as my preferred name. My health insurance was in the name I preferred. I traveled under the name I preferred. Nobody cared.
Fast forward about forty years. Travel policies had tightened and I was once again forced to acknowledge my first name. A trip to Portugal in 2022 became frustrating when I had to constantly correct the tour guides, after I had dutifully listed my middle name in the “Preferred Name” box on the forms.
That’s it, I thought. No more. So I made it official. I now am legally addressed by what had been my middle name, my first name now residing in the middle position and shortened to a single letter. No one’s going to call me that again…except…when I have the unfortunate need to communicate with my ex. But that doesn’t happen often.
I bought a piece of art off the courthouse wall the day I received the order. It hangs in my living room as a reminder of the gift I gave myself. The ink drawing of frogs perched on lily pads in a pond was created by a woman in a recovery program. I thought it fitting: the artist was working on her trauma, and her art was a symbol of me working on mine. I’m so thankful it was there on the courthouse wall that day. It’s a favorite piece in my collection.
Of course, changing my name didn’t erase my past. It didn’t make me magically stop thinking about it. But not hearing that name every day has given me space to heal. Distance. There was a level of resentment I felt when called by my given name.
I still have memories that make me sad at times. But it’s easier these days to recognize when I’m going down an unhealthy rabbit hole. I remind myself that I’m a different person than I was back then. I have better options now, because of the life I’ve created for myself. Sure, I still carry grief that bubbles up from time to time – don’t we all? And I occasionally go back to therapy for a tune-up. That’s how healing works. But I feel I’m “over the hump.” And the name change was a big part of making that happen.
The decision to change a name is a big one, and isn’t for everyone. In case you’re considering it, you should know: The courthouse step is surprisingly easy. The name changing on every official document in your life is the hard part. I’m still working on it.
What big thing have you done for yourself that caused a shift in your life? Did it do the trick? Was it everything you hoped for?
