My first name was a beginning stroke.
Given before courage.
Before the world made its demands.
In time, my name learned me.
It doesn’t waste syllables.
It’s short. Memorable. A little defiant.
It does not ask permission to enter a room.
It sits cross-legged and listens
until something strange wanders by.
Etymology will tell you what my name once meant.
Imagination tells you what it became.
My name didn’t shield me from awkwardness.
It walked straight into it—
stood there, unflinching,
and stayed.
Names, like people, grow into themselves.
And mine grew with me—
not by protecting me,
but by letting me become.
If my name signifies anything, it is this:
run toward the future—
but keep one hand on the past.
A name, like a story,
only lives as long as someone keeps reading.

Leave a comment