Life in words
The name I was given
Becoming the Self between two worlds
-Prasantiram
There are names we are born with.
And then, there are names the world gives us — nicknames, pen names, titles, workplace versions, even mispronounced or shortened forms that somehow stick. Some are given out of love. Others, for convenience. And sometimes, we find ourselves quietly asking: if no one calls me by the name I was given, does it still hold meaning?
People say, “It’s just a pet name,” or “It’s destiny,” brushing aside the small ache we feel when something as personal as our name is ignored, altered, or erased. We try correcting pronunciation — especially with those who share our roots. But as we step into other spaces, school, workplaces, social circles — we begin to surrender. We let others rename us. Reshape us. And sometimes even erase us. silence parts of us we didn’t know we were compromising.
And then there’s another layer…
In some journeys, names aren’t just given — they are chosen. Changed. Reimagined. For alignment, for strength, for clarity. Through numerology, spiritual belief, certain letters or phonetic shifts can unlock unseen energies, or quiet hope, we seek the power of sound Of vibration. Of the way a name dances when spoken aloud — and how our spirit answers. For some, this is healing. For others, a reclaiming. And for many, it’s quiet resistance. But even then, the questions remain.
Do we shape the name, or does the name shape us?
In childhood, we absorb identity as we’re taught it: through family, faith, language, and legacy. We are named, shaped, and guided — sometimes lovingly, sometimes strictly. Then school, society, and media arrive with new rules. New comparisons. New hierarchies. We start to wonder if being us is enough.We may begin to distance ourselves from parts of our identity that don’t feel “popular” enough, or that invite questioning glances. This is where power begins to play a quiet game. It rewards conformity and discourages differenceNames are changed to be easier to pronounce. Faiths are hidden to avoid discomfort. Accents are softened. Skin is lightened in photos. And somewhere along the way, parts of our truth are tucked away.
Our names, languages, traditions, beliefs, and even our clothing often act as visible symbols of who we are. But identity runs deeper than appearance—it evolves, it bends under pressure, it adapts in the face of rejection, and it sometimes hides in the shadows of what the world expects us to be.
But identity has a way of whispering back to us. In moments of silence, in acts of courage, in the art we create or the language we speak when no one is watching, it reclaims space.
Who are you—when no one is watching, when no one needs you to perform, explain, or to please?
I remember the first time someone shortened my name without asking. It wasn’t out of malice — just convenience. But something inside me folded, quietly. A syllable lost. A meaning diluted. A sound that once felt like home suddenly sounded foreign. I smiled. Nodded. Let it pass. Because correcting felt like too much. Because belonging felt more urgent than being whole.
Over the years, I carried versions of myself that fit better into rooms I didn’t fully belong in. I softened my voice. Shrunk my truths. Adjusted my heritage to be more “relatable.” And each time, a part of me whispered: is this still me?
Identity isn’t always something we choose. Often, it’s assigned — layered with tradition, expectation, and silent assumptions. We respond to the roles we’re given: daughter, teacher, wife, mother,son,husband,father. Each one is meaningful. Each one loved. Yet in the noise of it all, I forgot to ask — where was my own voiceBetween cultures, languages, and beliefs, we often live split lives. One truth at home. Another in public. One name in private. Another in professional settings. Not because it doesn’t matter. But because it feels safer.
Yet when we trade authenticity for acceptance, something subtle breaks. Identity becomes a performance. Something we manage rather than embody. And in that space between who we are and who we are expected to be — we begin to disappear. Not just our names. But our wholeness.
Somewhere along the way, nicknames and pet names take over. Some sweet. Some are silly. Some are so constant they feel more real than what’s on paper. But quietly, I’ve asked: if everyone calls me something else, what happens to the name I was given?
The name chosen with care. Full of history. Spoken by my parents in hushed tones of love. That name begins to feel like a forgotten gift — present only in legal documents, rarely in moments of closeness. And maybe that’s where identity begins to drift — not in bold decisions, but in the soft, daily erasures.
I’ve seen it often. People gently correct the pronunciation of their names… only among their own. But in diverse or dominant spaces, they stay silent. They adapt. Preemptively. To avoid awkwardness. To make others feel comfortable — even if it means discomforting themselves.
Is it humility? Survival? The quiet cost of trying to belong? And every time I adapted, I told myself it was no big deal. “It’s just a name.” “It makes things smoother.” “It’s not worth the awkwardness.” But it is. It’s not just a name.It’s a history, a melody, a legacy whispered by parents, ancestors, A message from those who loved us first.
Behind every compromise, there was always,and always a quiet ache. A knowing. A tug.
We are often praised for how well we blend. Rarely for how fully we stand. But I’ve learned this: true identity isn’t about choosing sides. It’s about becoming a bridge. Not fitting between worlds – but gently threading them together. And calling that place home.
Identity isn’t just what we declare ourselves to be or what we are told to be nor is it the luggage we carry. It is the impact we leave behind, the legacy we create in the hearts and minds of those who knew us.
it’s what we carry, often unknowingly. It’s the luggage we didn’t pack, but are expected to drag through life with grace. It’s the stories, expectations, and imprints left by family, society, culture, and history – layered on top of who we might have been, had we ever been free to choose.
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