Ava sat cross-legged on her bed, surrounded by scattered pieces of paper. Each one bore names; some were hastily scribbled, while others were written in flowing script with careful strokes. She had been grappling with this decision for weeks—a name that felt so simple yet carried the weight of her entire identity.
She had grown up as David. It wasn’t a bad name, really. It had been her father’s middle name and a source of pride for him. But every time she heard it, it felt like a coat that didn’t fit—too tight, too heavy, and nothing like her. She had struggled with the discomfort for years until one day, she could bear it no longer.
She remembered the moment vividly. It was a Tuesday morning, and she was walking by the bay. The warm breeze rustled the palm trees as Ava gazed at the glittering water. A name is just a word, she thought, but it’s also a mirror. For so long, hers hadn’t reflected who she truly was. That day, she resolved to choose a name that felt like home.
Her first instinct was to begin with family names—maybe one from her grandmother, who had always recognized her for who she truly was. But none of the names seemed right.
She attempted to borrow inspiration from her favorite books and songs. Names like Luna, Aurora, and Elizabeth floated through her mind, but none felt right. Some were too whimsical, while others seemed too formal. Ava desired something simple yet strong, elegant yet unpretentious.
One night, she sat at her desk, scrolling through lists of names online. When she saw
“Ava,” she froze. It was brief, just three letters, yet it held a quiet confidence. It evoked the open vowels in the names of her favorite singers—Freddie Mercury’s soaring falsetto and Annie Lennox’s haunting tone. There was something melodic about “Ava,” something that resonated deeply in her chest.
Nevertheless, she wasn’t prepared to commit.
Ava carried the name in her heart for a few weeks, like a secret she wasn’t prepared to share. She tried it out in small ways—signing it at the bottom of her journal, whispering it to herself in the mirror. It felt more natural each time as if the name had been waiting for her all along.
The first time Ava spoke it out loud to someone else was during a phone call with her best friend. “I think I’ve chosen my name,” she said, her voice trembling.
Her friend’s response was immediate. “Let me hear it.”
“Ava.” There was a pause, then a warm, joyful laugh. “It’s perfect. It’s so… you.”
Tears sprang to Ava’s eyes. For the first time, she felt seen—not just by others, but by herself.
When I hear someone call out “Ava,” it feels like sunlight breaking through the clouds.
For so long, my name didn’t feel like mine—it was something I carried, yet it didn’t carry me. Now, every time I hear “Ava,” it gently reminds me that I chose me.
Living as Ava has been transformative in ways I never could have imagined. It’s not just
It’s not just about having a name that suits me; it’s about the freedom and authenticity that come with it. When I introduce myself as Ava, there’s a confidence in my voice that wasn’t there before. It feels natural and effortless, like slipping into a favorite pair of shoes.
I love how the name has woven itself into the fabric of my life. Friends say it with warmth, their smiles showing me they see me—not a version of me that conforms to
expectations, but the real Ava. I notice it in emails, text messages, and the occasional handwritten note, making my heart swell a little each time.
Celebrating who I am is a deep joy. I started with something as simple yet profound as my name, which has become a symbol of my journey and reflects the courage it took to embrace my truth.
I didn’t expect how “Ava” would lead to deeper connections. People ask about my story, and I share it proudly, hoping it might inspire someone else. Being Ava means living as my most authentic self, and that authenticity has brought so much love and light into my life. My life.
Every time I say my name, it’s a small act of self-love, a reminder that I am exactly who I was always meant to be.
Ava—That’s me.
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