My name used to be kept hidden. I put it in my back pocket and didn’t allow anyone to take it out. In my brian’s filing cabinet, it was categorized as my “big name”. Its folder was caked in dust with crippled edges. Most people don’t use it, so I just tucked it away. Every now and then I would hear it and shudder in disgust. The longer it was in my back pocket, the more I disliked it.

“Madelyn” left a bitter taste in my mouth. Teachers would call it out. I would hear the kids around me giggle. The humiliating laughter turned my name red. Eventually I agreed with the slander, and crisp, icey blue lines that resembled cracks tore through the ruby red.

My name was lengthy and stern. Long ago it was shortened to something more inviting. But this one is left with shoe marks and stains from being used by many. “Maddie” was worn out and overused. I never cared much for this name—but at least I didn’t hate it.

My mom loves my name. To her my name is the memories of strong women. Like her mother who fought so hard to beat a death sentence in the form of a diagnosis. To her, my name is warm joy that fills the room with laughter. Old fashioned and proper. But that is not what she got. No matter how hard she tried, my mom could never convince me to love my name as much as she did. 

My name portrays a role that I simply cannot fit. I am not proper. I don’t think I represent the strength my mom sees in my name. This definition of my name didn’t feel like me. So , I could not love my name as my mom did. 

I hate the way that the freshness of my name has withered away. But he said my name once, not the short and inviting one, the long one, with sharp edges and a texture that was coarse to the touch. He made it sound different. Warmth and joy filled me up when I heard him say it. His voice plays in my head. I can see it roll over all the sharp edges, making them smooth. 

I look at that name with respect and gratitude now. My name is free and strong. It looks like an open field with spring colored, vibrant wildflowers and tall grass. My name is warm like the colors of the sun but can still be sharp like its blistering heat. When I hear my name, I hear the strum of a harp, a golden instrument that brings warmth to your heart. My name does hold a certain strength. It is brave. Kind. It reflects my empathy and ability to stand my ground.

Though I took my name for granted, someone else was able to show me its beauty.  Now I idolize the idea of that proper, kind woman that I strive to be. It is about learning to find beauty in its sharp edges even if it lies awkwardly between the teeth of other people. It is about turning the ridgedness created by foul mouths into smooth rolling hills. 

And sometimes when you can’t see that beautiful vision, there are people who can show you the soft music and warmth that wrap around each following letter.