Latest / Who’s Your Person?: Friendship, Trust & Belonging / Why Changing Your Name Feels Like Betraying Your Past Self | Who’s Your Person?
Transcript
- I recently changed my name on a social media platform and felt a sudden, sharp pang of grief for the person I used to be. It wasn’t just a username; it was an identity I had worn so long I forgot where my skin ended and the label began. Let’s talk about that moment. You know the one. You’re sitting there, fingers hovering over the keyboard, cursor blinking like a tiny, judgmental heartbeat. You type in the new name. The old one dissolves. And suddenly, you feel... untethered. It’s strange how much weight we put on these small labels, isn’t it? We think of names as static things, carved in stone. But for me, and maybe for you, they’ve always been more like clothes. Some fit perfectly for a season. Others become too tight, or too loose, or simply don’t match who you are anymore. When I hit 'save' on that new handle, I didn’t feel freedom. I felt like I’d erased a chapter of my life without writing down what happened in it. Why does changing something so simple feel like such a profound loss? We carry versions of ourselves everywhere. There’s the version of you that sent that risky text at 2 AM. There’s the version of you that believed in someone who didn’t deserve it. There’s the version of you that thought happiness would look a certain way. When we change our names, or our identities, or even just how we introduce ourselves in a room full of strangers, we are effectively killing off those previous ghosts. And it is okay to mourn them. It feels like betrayal, doesn’t it? Like you’re abandoning the girl who tried so hard, who made so many mistakes, who loved so fiercely. But here’s the truth: you aren’t abandoning her. You’re outgrowing her. Let’s sit with that. Outgrowing isn’t a rejection of your history; it’s an acknowledgment of your growth. The old name held you when you were small. The new name holds you now that you are expanding. What did that consistency cost you? That’s the question I keep asking myself. For years, I kept using the same nickname because it was comfortable. Because people knew it. Because changing it meant explaining myself, again and again. But comfort is not the same as belonging. I realized that by keeping the old label, I was inviting people to relate to a version of me that no longer exists. I was asking them to see a ghost. And in doing so, I was denying myself the chance to be seen as I am right now. This awkwardness you feel when you shift your identity—it’s the friction between who you were expected to be and who you are becoming. It’s messy. It’s uncomfortable. But it is also the price of admission for authenticity. Think about your digital footprint. It’s a museum of your past selves. Every post, every photo, every bio update is a curated exhibit. Sometimes we curate to hide, but often we curate to remember. When I looked at my profile after the change, I saw years of evolution. I saw the angst, the joy, the confusion. It was all there, archived in real-time. And I realized that my online identity doesn’t have to be a single, unchanging statue. It can be a living document. It can breathe. It can shift. But society tells us otherwise. We are taught to build a personal brand that is consistent, reliable, predictable. But human beings are none of those things. We are fluid. We are contradictory. We are constantly rewriting our own stories. To hold onto a single name or identity mid-life is to deny the very nature of being alive. But let’s be honest about the transition period. It’s awkward. You introduce yourself with the new name, and someone hesitates. They call you by the old one by accident. Or worse, they correct you, as if you’re wrong for changing. In those moments, you feel exposed. Vulnerable. Like you’re wearing a costume that hasn’t quite settled. I’ve been there. I’ve felt the sting of a friend who couldn’t let go of the old you, clinging to the familiarity while you were trying to step into the light. It hurts. It makes you want to shrink back into the safety of the old label. But you have to stay. You have to let the awkwardness be there. You have to let people stumble. Because their stumbling is not a reflection of your worth; it’s a reflection of their attachment to the past. You are allowed to outgrow them, too, if they cannot grow with you. So why do we do it? Why do we risk the awkwardness, the grief, the potential misunderstanding? Because we crave to be known. Truly known. Not the known version from five years ago, but the known version from today. When you change your name, or your pronouns, or your public persona, you are making a bold statement. You are saying, 'This is who I am now. See me.' It takes courage. It takes a fierce kind of love for yourself. It’s easy to stay still. It’s safe to stay still. But staying still means stagnating. It means letting other people define your boundaries because you’re too afraid to redraw them. I’m choosing to redraw mine. I’m choosing to use the name that fits my soul, not just my history. And I hope you find the space to do the same. This isn’t a one-time event. Belonging is a practice, not a destination. You will change again. You will shed more skins. You will lose friends who only liked the old you. And you will gain new ones who love the current you. This cycle is beautiful. It is painful. It is necessary. So next time you feel that hesitation before you make a change—whether it’s a name, a career, a relationship, or a belief system—don’t rush past it. Sit with the discomfort. Ask yourself what you’re afraid of losing. Is it the person? Or is it the validation they gave you? Choose the former. Choose the truth. Even if it’s messy. Even if it’s awkward. Especially if it’s true. Thank you for listening, for trusting me with your attention, and for being willing to grow. I’ll see you in the next episode. Until then, be gentle with your past selves, and brave for your future ones. Bye for now.