I was reclaiming a piece of myself that I had let go of a decade ago. The decision to change my name came swiftly, but the journey to complete the process was anything but quick.
As I entered my information on a screen, a small slip of paper emerged with a number on it. It felt reminiscent of a deli counter—only instead of ordering lunch, I was requesting a new identity.
I should have had lunch.
Usually, I’m not good at waiting—for traffic lights, replies to texts, or even holidays. Yet, in this moment, I found a strange sense of patience. The ink had dried, and my marriage was officially over. My ex-husband’s surname felt foreign now, like a snug sweater that never stretched out to fit comfortably, only served to irritate.
Taking my husband’s last name had been an expectation I accepted without question. Like many girls, I had fantasized about my future with “Mrs. Dreamboat” scrawled across my notebooks. My friends’ mothers were all “Mrs. Last Name,” and during gatherings, I often heard, “You know her; she used to be a Smith. But she got married.”
We planned our wedding when “Future Mrs. Name” merchandise was all the rage, and my sister gifted me a sweatshirt that proclaimed “Future Mrs. J.” I slipped it on, and for the first time, the weight of adopting a new name hit me hard. It made me truly contemplate the transformation that was about to happen.
Rachel Adams had been there through every milestone—dance recitals, graduations, and even the prom. She went through higher education and became a professor. Yet, I shoved that sweatshirt onto a closet shelf.
In hindsight, I wish I had pondered the implications of changing my name before saying “I do.” It was 2007, not the 1950s. The societal norms had shifted; some of my friends had chosen to keep their maiden names or hyphenate. But I thought I wanted that traditional family name, and aside from a brief chat with my then-partner, I never really considered keeping my own identity.
It took me a month post-wedding to visit the Social Security office to finalize the name change. When asked to sign with my new surname, I hesitated. Normally, signing my name was second nature, but this time, I found myself carefully forming each letter.
I imagined this change would usher in a new chapter filled with family and a home. But ten years later, I found myself back at that same, dreary Social Security office, clutching papers that allowed me to reclaim my original name—one that felt more like home than any piece of clothing ever could.
Conversations about my name change often led to one recurring question: “Aren’t you concerned about having a different last name than your children?” Initially, this would have troubled me, but I had evolved. I realized that a shared last name wasn’t the cornerstone of family. My identity as their mother remained unchanged, regardless of our last names.
The display board at the Social Security Administration flickered to life. There it was—my number. The wait was finally over.
With a few tears streaming down my face, I raised my right hand, but they weren’t tears of sadness. I was reclaiming my identity. Though I was no longer the same 29-year-old I had been, my old name still resonated deeply. Signing my name felt effortless this time, even after a decade of using another.
I’ve pondered what would happen if I were to remarry. One lesson I’ve learned is that life is unpredictable. But I’m certain of one thing: I won’t change my name again. If someone sends a holiday card addressed to “Mr. and Mrs. New Last Name,” it won’t bother me. If my children’s friends sometimes call me “Mrs. New Last Name,” that’s fine too. In certain contexts, it might even feel appropriate.
However, Rachel Adams is the name that feels right in every situation, regardless of circumstances or marital status. It’s a name that will continue to grow with me.
It feels great to be back.
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