What's in a Name?

What is a name?

Just a word? Or something more?

Before our daughter was born, we spent what felt like forever picking out the perfect name. We chose it before her birth. I used it through pregnancy, talking to my growing bump. It made her feel real. I thought of a real baby, a real child, a real teenager, a real adult. A future spread out before her.

Recently, that same child announced that she'd like to be known by a nickname.

I'd been prepared for this moment, or so I thought. We'd considered, before she was born, that she'd likely choose to use this nickname one day.

A few years ago, a relative of mine (we'll call them Sam) chose to change their name completely. They went by their new name casually, until they could formally and legally make the change. Sam's father still uses their old name (let's say it was Jo) when talking to, or about, Sam. So many times, I've seen Sam's father use Sam's old name. When Sam's questioned this, Sam's father has argued that to him, Sam will always be Jo. That he raised Jo. That Jo was his child.

So many times, I've watched these arguments and wondered how a parent can go against their child's wishes that way; why the name matters so much, when the child is the same.

My own daughter? She hasn't completely changed her name. All she's done is drop three letters from the end of it. She's shortened it. And yet, when she told me, I went through a grieving process that I simply hadn't been ready for.

It turns out that a name is more than just a word. It's linked to so many memories.

My daughter requested a small change. A nickname. But suddenly, my mind took me back to before she was born. It took me back to the moment that the sonographer announced that we were having a girl, using her name because we'd already picked it out.

It took me back to those moments when I called her by her full name, as I felt her kicks and hiccups inside me.

It took me back to those early days, when I held and comforted a tiny newborn, stroking her cheek and calming her down.

It took me back to those funny moments, those happy moments, those sad moments, those moments of fear, those moments of laughter, all lived by a girl with a certain name. All of those memories, linked to a name that would no longer be used.

All of those times that people heard her name when she was a toddler, and commented about how beautiful it was. The name that we chose for her. The name that, after so many times announcing that she felt it was the best name in the world, she suddenly wasn't happy with.

She was growing up. In place of my young child, with one name, was a confident and independent individual with another.

Three letters. That's all that was taken away.

A small change, but somehow something so big. A loss that I grieved, with a few quiet tears that first night.

Suddenly, I understand how a father can struggle to accept a child's formal and legal name change. How the child that he once knew is an adult that is exactly the same, but how the memories don't quite link up in the same way that they once did.

A baby, a toddler, with one name. A name no longer used. A name no longer called up the stairs when dinner's ready, used to reprimand or to praise, whispered at night after bedtime stories...

A person's identity is their own to shape and mould. Name included. My daughter isn't my property. She's not a belonging, and so I will always respect her decision and go along with any name that she chooses.

But somehow, a name is more than just a name - and for that, I simply wasn't prepared.