I married my ex-husband in the early ’90s, and despite being a feminist and a working professional, I took his name. It wasn’t a difficult decision. In fact, I don’t really remember it being a decision at all. We had decided to become a family and I wanted a single, family name to unite us and the children I expected we’d have. There was no discussion of alternate ways to achieve that goal. It never occurred to me or to him that he would change his name to mine. Hyphenating our two obviously Jewish surnames seemed like an unfair yoke to hang on our children’s necks and I frankly liked his last name better than mine. So I took it and never regretted it. Until we got divorced twenty-eight years later.

At first, I assumed I’d just keep his name. It had been my name for nearly all of my adult life after all. I had built a successful career using that name, had a reputation in my industry with that name, was a licensed attorney under that name. Keeping his name, which had become my name, seemed like the most sensible thing to do.

That feeling lasted about a week. Once my divorce was final, seeing his name on my email address, on my driver’s license, on my business cards became intolerable. Why should he still lay claim to any part of me? His name, which no longer felt like my name, was a constant reminder of all that I had sacrificed in my marriage. I willingly surrendered my surname the day we got married, but unintentionally lost more and more of myself over the course of our marriage until there was little left that I recognized. It took years of often painful therapy and self-reflection to reclaim the self that I had lost, to develop the strength I needed to reach for the happiness I now knew I deserved. Keeping his name felt like a betrayal of all that work. I was no longer his. I was mine, and I wanted my name to reflect that.

As part of our divorce decree I was permitted to resume use of my maiden name, but that name felt as foreign to me as my married name. It was the name of the child, the young adult, the “maiden” who had misguidedly structured her life to make her happiness dependent on, and subordinate to, the happiness of others. That was the girl who had learned to stay small to survive in a turbulent family environment. That was the woman who was willing to sacrifice herself, her wants, her needs to achieve an elusive marital peace. I wasn’t that girl anymore and I didn’t want to bear her name any more than my ex-husband’s.

I chewed on this dilemma for a while. To change my name to something other than my maiden name would require a rather arcane legal process, including publication in a newspaper of all things, followed by the bureaucratic process of changing my social security card, driver’s license, passport, bank account, credit cards, etc. Not an insignificant undertaking. And what would I change it to? Of all the beautiful words in the world, how would I select one that captured the essence of me? Should it be a name chosen for its lyrical beauty? For its ability to conjure images of power and strength? Should I resurrect a name from my family tree or plant something new all my own? Most importantly, my name needed to proudly declare my reemergence and my determination to show the world my authentic self.

These questions filtered through my consciousness during the day and my dreams at night. I found myself repeating my first and middle names and then pausing to allow time for inspiration to fill in the blank. Beth Holly [blank], Beth Holly [blank] . . . Beth Holly. There was no need for a blank. My middle name, chosen in honor of my maternal great, grandfather Harry, was all I needed. Beth Holly was authentically me. I had been Beth Holly since the moment of my birth. It was me, and it was enough.

There is a special magic in choosing your own name. After far too many years of hiding, staying small, subjugating my needs to keep others happy, in naming myself I claimed my space. I planted my flag proudly and declared my presence to the world. Not as someone’s daughter or someone’s wife or even as someone’s mother, but as me. Beth Holly. A woman with strength and failings and love and desires and fears and ambitions and sorrows and a steadfast commitment to never again sacrifice her authenticity for acceptance.

-Beth Holly

Beth Holly is in the midst of a personal renaissance, having recently left a twenty-eight-year marriage and a thirty-five-year career as an attorney. Writing has become the vehicle for speaking the truth of her life experience and sharing her unquenchable thirst for adventure, learning, and joy. She is the mother of two wonderful adult children, and she lives in New York with her two dogs, Bodhi and Tucker. Find her on Instagram @bethfholly