For as long as I can remember, I’ve harbored a strong dislike for the name Jaymee. It feels jarring to me, and when I hear it, I often feel overlooked and misrepresented. Research indicates that our names can activate specific areas of our brains linked to our identity, and each time I hear “Jaymee,” I’m struck with an uncomfortable sense of worthlessness, particularly when friends use it casually.
Throughout my life, I’ve faced constant challenges getting people to pronounce my name correctly. I’ve taken to social media to share my frustrations, asked close friends to discreetly correct others, and even offered “just call me Jay” as an alternative (not Jay, like the bird, but Jay, straightforward and simple). Yet, these efforts rarely yield results, especially when conversing with those from different regions.
Interestingly, my original name was meant to be Anna. I find that name pleasant; it may not have the flair of names like Isabella or Mia, but it resonates with me. However, my grandmother thought Anna sounded too unconventional for a girl in our family, leading my parents to choose Jaymee instead.
I sometimes wish there were communities for individuals like myself—the Jays, the Annas—who feel similarly about their names. Recently, I attended a class event where students shared their thoughts on their names. While many of them experienced fleeting doubts about their names, every single one eventually embraced their identity. I felt a pang of envy; I’ve struggled with my name for over four decades.
A while ago, I reconnected with my favorite high school math teacher on social media. He started his message with, “Hi Jaymee (not Jaymi)! I remember how upset you would get when people mispronounced it.” Given that I graduated in the early ’80s, it was heartwarming that he recalled such a personal detail. Yet, it also highlighted how long I’ve wrestled with the discomfort of my own name.
Recently, I’ve begun introducing myself as Anna when ordering coffee or making reservations. Hearing “Anna, party of four” is far more pleasing than “Jaymee, party of four.” I try to ignore when baristas mistakenly write “Aanna” on my coffee cups, as at least the pronunciation is correct. If my name were pronounced right, the spelling wouldn’t bother me.
When I express my frustrations to my parents, my dad cheerfully suggests, “Just change it!” For years, I dismissed the practicality of this idea. “I’m a writer; my byline matters,” I used to argue. But as I’ve embraced the name Anna, I’m considering the possibility of officially changing it. While Jaymee is part of my identity, I am most definitely not that name, which is how many people refer to me anyway. Perhaps I wouldn’t lose anything significant. The thought of spending the next several decades free from the discomfort of my name is incredibly enticing.
At 46, I might finally shed the name Jaymee and embrace the identity of Anna. Contemplating this further, I find myself imagining how being Anna could enhance my life. Maybe Anna won’t struggle with self-doubt. Perhaps she’ll find yoga poses easier. Maybe she’ll appreciate the charm of shows like Buffy the Vampire Slayer or the works of authors like Margaret Atwood. Even if Anna turns out to be just like me—only with a name that isn’t constantly mispronounced—that alone feels like a monumental win.
In this exploration of identity and self-definition, I’m reminded of the profound impact a name can have. If you’re interested in more insights on family planning, check out this excellent resource on in vitro fertilisation or explore further about home insemination kits. For prenatal screening information, visit this authority on the topic.