(Don't) say my name

I always hated my name. It was given to me before I was born, not by my mother or my father, but by my father’s brother, who had lost his wife seven years before my birth.

I always hated my name.

Since I was a child, they (my parents, my uncle Philips, and even my two grandmothers) always told me that I shouldn’t hate my name because it belonged to my aunt, who died giving birth to my cousin. So I had to consider it with respect and affection.

Even the pastor of my community agreed with them, and to make my name sound less unbearable and more tolerable, he explained to me that it had a very good meaning.

Theodora means: gift of God.

"Not only do I have the worst name in the whole Universe, but it also makes me sound like a 90-year-old nun!" I thought on that occasion.

Nevertheless, during my childhood, I tried to give myself strength by thinking about the fact that my name had a very deep meaning. But it was never enough.

My friends always called me Teddy, in a vain attempt to make my name less unpleasant. At the same time, my uncle tried to find various nicknames for me. He loved calling me Dora, for instance, and I loved it too—if it weren’t for the fact that I looked more like a boy than a girl.

The times when my mother decided to cut my beautiful curly hair, one of my cousins started calling me Baldora. I hated it, but I didn’t have the courage to protest. I convinced myself that one day, as an adult, I would have the chance to choose my own name.

I can say that I spent my whole life trying to find a name that best represents me, without any real result. Every time I introduced myself as Theodora, I felt a slight hesitation, as if the name didn't belong to me. It was like wearing a dress that didn’t fit quite right—elegant, maybe, but never truly comfortable.

Once, as an adult, a colleague of mine said to me: "I don't really like your name, I will call you Milena."

I wanted to hug him! I believe that Milena is a very nice name, plus it reminds me of Kafka and his letters; moreover, it sounds so romantic. Besides, having grown up, I finally looked like a girl. It was a perfect name!

If it weren’t for the fact that my boss decided to fire him a couple of months later, and I was forced back to being Theodora. Again!

But one day, a client of the company started calling me Sadie: “Theodora is way too grand! You look more like a Sadie to me—short, sweet, and full of energy!”.

Since we saw him very often and he had been our client for many years, he even became a friend. At first, I hesitated to accept it, but then I realized something: I actually liked it. It was easy to say, casual but not childish, and it fit me in a way Theodora never had. The first time I introduced myself as Sadie, I felt something click inside me.

That’s how my name changed to Sadie.

I can say that my name has been Sadie for 19 years. I would have preferred Milena, actually, but in any case, Sadie is still better than Theodora.

All the new people I meet today know that my name is Sadie, and most of them don’t even know my real name. Over time, even my family started calling me this way.

I spent 29 years trying to find a name that truly represents me, and I finally found that Sadie is perfect for me.

A name is more than just a label. It carries expectations, memories, and sometimes even burdens. And in the end, what truly matters is how we feel about it ourselves. Finding Sadie wasn’t just about changing a name—it was about embracing the version of myself that I had always wanted to be.

Now, every time I hear someone say "Sadie," I smile. Because this time, it really is me.