Sometimes, I think we bestow names upon our children that mean more about us than they do about our children.
When I became pregnant with my oldest son, I toiled over naming him. What name felt right? What name would represent who I hoped this child would become? And, to be totally honest.. what sounded cool?
Our names hold our identities; the ones we bravely present to the world and the ones we keep close to our hearts. Naming someone is an act of declaration and meaning. It’s a way of saying, “This is how I see you. This is what I hope for you.” Sometimes, especially in modern American society, naming is a lot more arbitrary than that.
My adoptive parents chose to name me Amanda before they even brought me home. Amanda means “beloved.” For what it’s worth, it also happened to be the name of one of my adoptive mom’s favorite soap opera stars in the mid-1980’s.
From childhood through my mid-20’s, I consistently voiced that my name didn’t fit, that it felt like an ill-fitting dress. Friends and family would often try to soothe this by saying, “What’s in a name? It’s not who you are.” My closest friends would echo my feeling, offering names they felt suited me better.
An only child, I spent an enormous amount of time in my bedroom naming my crew of stuffed animals with all the names I’d consider for myself. Staring in the mirror, I’d practice introducing myself by a new chosen name that seemed to change every week. I’d doodle different names in bubble letters, practice their signature, and sometimes sign notes to friends with my chosen name of the week.
When I landed on my college campus, I asked my new friends to call me Mandi, hoping it’d feel better, different… more “me.” And it did for a while. Until I graduated and moved closer to my hometown, around friends and community who’d known me my whole life. Back to Amanda. Back to that pestering feeling of un-belonging in the midst of those who should have known me so well.
When I switched careers in my mid-20’s – from high school teacher to hairstylist – I wound up working in a salon with another Amanda who’d been there years before me. It’s common in the salon industry to have an alternate name to avoid confusion among clients requesting the stylist of their choice. Our manager asked me to choose a name to differentiate us and I was truly thrilled! What was an annoyance for others was a pure delight. Finally, I had a “legit” reason to choose a new name.
What was a somewhat arbitrary task in terms of its purpose for my work felt so personal and serious to me. For a week, I toiled over lists of names I loved – some more silly than others – and meanings I wanted to claim for myself.
This opportunity to choose a name felt like a reclamation of my identity, like a retrieval of my true essence. Who was I? What did I want to claim over myself and my life? What meaning did I want my name to speak – to myself and others?
With it was also a sense of levity – the professional purpose lent a sense of fun and non-permanence to it all.
After a week of sitting with the possibilities, meanings, and identities each name held to me, I landed solidly on Olive. A somewhat silly ode to ‘Little Miss Sunshine’ – desperately wanting the levity, optimism, and authentic expression of Olive’s character – alongside a desire to embody the meaning of the name, “peace,” in my life.
I became Olive at work but remained Amanda at home for a while longer. Even some of my close friends started calling me Olive, saying “it just fits better.” Slowly, here and there, I’d introduce myself to someone new as Olive.
There were times I felt silly, honestly. Times I asked, “Who am I to change my name?”. I spent too much of my life force wondering what other people thought about me keeping my chosen name long after it was needed to distinguish me in my profession. So many comments from family, who felt my name change was a joke or, worse, an act of betrayal.
But for all of those times I felt weird, silly, or foolish there were twice as many when I felt at home with myself in a way I almost never had. When I was no longer in the salon industry and forging a new path myself after divorce and loss of friends, I found a sense of freedom in being more fully myself as Olive.
Reclamation is like that, sometimes. Like trying on a suit that’s three sizes too big. It feels/looks silly, out of place, in a world that prefers rigid roles over freedom and fluidity.
The day before my 27th birthday, in the midst of this personal shift, I received my non-identifying information and a handwritten letter from my birth mother, both of which I knew nothing about and were supposed to be given to me on my 18th birthday. With that, my mom reminded me that my birth mother wanted me to be named Ashley Nicole. She thought that might be important information if and when I decided to search for my birth mother. And it was…
When I first sought out my birth mother/family, I wavered on how to introduce myself. Would she expect my name to still be Ashley Nicole? Should I introduce myself as Amanda or Olive?
My first bio family connection was with one of my half-brothers. He asked me multiple questions, looking for confirmation that I was who I said I was – his sister. He asked me if Olive was my birth name and when I told him no, it was Ashley Nicole, he was satisfied. He’d known most of his life that he had a sister somewhere named Ashley Nicole.
My name turned out to be a seemingly sore point for my birth mother. Multiple times, she used naming as a way to jab at me when we were connecting. In one of my last interactions with my birth mother, she lamented that I was not her Ashley. That line hurt… and she was right. I’m not Ashley. I’m not Amanda.
I’m Olive, for today, claiming peace over my life and in my healing. Pursuing joy and authentic expression, no matter what.
As I hear from other adoptees who have also changed their name, the theme of “why” and the gift it brings is two-fold: 1) a matter of choice/finally choosing for themselves and 2) a reclaiming of who they were before, despite adoption, and who they are now.
Naming people – ourselves included – is a sacred and simple act of reclaiming our true essence. A spirited way of reminding ourselves who we are and what we want to claim over our lives.
Who am I despite adoption?
I am Beloved.
I am Peace.
I am Olive.
Olive is an adoptee, creative coach, and facilitator based in Athens, Georgia. She’s the founder of Adoptee Rising – a belonging, healing, and self-discovery community for adult adoptees
