It was time for me to reclaim a part of my identity that I had set aside a decade ago. The choice to change my name came quickly, yet the actual process felt drawn out and was far from complete.
As I typed my name into a digital form, a small slip printed out with a number, reminiscent of a deli ticket—but instead of deli meats, I was requesting a new identity, along with new Social Security benefits.
I probably should have grabbed lunch. Typically, I’m not the most patient person—waiting at a red light or for a text reply can be a challenge. Yet this time, the wait didn’t bother me at all.
The ink had dried. My marriage was officially over. My former married name suddenly felt foreign and awkward, a piece that never quite belonged to me. It was like wearing an ill-fitting sweater, hoping it would somehow become comfortable over time. But it only served to irritate me.
Taking my ex-husband’s last name was something I simply accepted as customary. Like many girls growing up, I often imagined my future with my crush’s last name, scribbling “Mrs. Dreamy-Boy-in-Fourth-Grade” in my notebooks. My friends’ mothers had adopted their husbands’ surnames, and during family gatherings, the conversation often revolved around women who had changed their names after marriage—“You know her, she used to be a Thompson.”
But then she got married. And now she wasn’t.
We organized our wedding during a time when “Future Mrs. Last Name” merchandise was becoming popular. My sister even gifted me a blue sweatshirt that proclaimed “Future Mrs. J.” As I tried it on, it was the first moment I paused to consider what it meant to take on a new identity.
Emily Carter had been my companion through various life milestones: dance recitals, my First Communion, and graduation ceremonies. She had earned her degrees and become a professional.
I tucked that sweatshirt away, though I often wonder why I didn’t give more thought to keeping my maiden name before walking down the aisle. It was 2007, not some bygone era. The days of housewives sipping coffee and tending to the home were fading. A few friends had opted to hyphenate or retain their last names, yet I thought I wanted a conventional family name. I had one brief conversation with my then-fiancé about it, but it never led to a serious consideration of keeping my surname.
A month after the wedding, I finally made my way to the Social Security office to make the name change. When the clerk asked me to sign my new name, I hesitated. Normally, my signature flowed effortlessly, but now I had to think about each letter.
I guess many people feel this way—it’s the unfamiliarity of it all. I assured myself that I would just need time to adjust.
By the time I exited the building, my uncertainties had subsided. Driving home, I envisioned the life I thought awaited me: children, a house, a future.
Yet, ten years later, I found myself back in that same drab Social Security office, clutching documents that symbolized my return to a name that resonated with me far more than any piece of clothing ever could.
As I began discussing my decision with others, one question kept resurfacing: “Don’t you want to share the same last name as your kids?”
Interestingly, I found that not having the same surname as my children didn’t bother me. Initially, when I first married, I craved that shared name. But life had evolved; I had evolved. I now understood that the bond of family is not solely defined by a shared surname. Regardless of whether we lived together or apart, I will always be their mom, and their dad will always be their dad.
Moreover, in the past decade, family dynamics have shifted. Many of my children’s friends come from homes where parents have different last names, regardless of marital status. Our names reflect this broader reality.
The flickering digital display finally showed my number. The wait was over.
The clerk behind the protective glass requested my papers. “Raise your right hand,” she instructed.
Tears streamed down my cheeks—not from sadness, but from the joy of reclaiming my identity. I had changed since 29, adding three more kids to my life, yet my original name still felt like the perfect fit. This time, without hesitation, I signed my old last name, even after a decade of using another.
I’ve contemplated what I would do if I were to marry again. One lesson I’ve learned is that the future is unpredictable. However, I do know that I won’t change my name again. If a Christmas card addressed me as “Mr. and Mrs. New Last Name,” I wouldn’t mind. If my children’s new friends occasionally called me “Mrs. New Last Name,” that wouldn’t bother me either. In certain situations, that might even feel appropriate.
But Emily Carter is the name that feels right all the time, no matter the circumstances or relationships. It will continue to evolve with me.
It feels wonderful to be back.
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Summary
After a decade of marriage and an uncomfortable surname, Emily Carter decided to reclaim her identity post-divorce by changing her name back to her maiden name. Reflecting on societal expectations, family dynamics, and personal growth, she realizes that a name does not define her family or her role as a mother. Ultimately, returning to her original name signifies her journey back to herself.