Let me start by saying something that might sound strange, I was named after the man who sexually abused me as a kid. And honestly? I never hated the name.
That’s a hell of a sentence I never thought I’d be sharing at this point in my life, but here I am.
That part always confused me. I expected to feel sick every time someone said it. I expected to want to scratch it off every form, every email signature, and every birthday card. But I didn’t.
It wasn’t love. It wasn’t pride. But it also wasn’t rage.
It was… complicated.
Was I Supposed to Hate It?
For a long time, feeling that weird mix of nothing made me think maybe I was screwed up somehow. Like I was supposed to despise it. Like maybe it meant I hadn’t fully accepted what happened to me. Maybe I hadn’t done enough “work.” Maybe I was still tethered to him in some toxic, unconscious way.
But here’s what I’ve come to understand:
The name wasn’t the problem.
What happened to me was.
The name didn’t hurt me.
He did.
And realizing that gave me room to breathe. It gave me permission to stop trying to feel the “right” way about something so layered. It gave me the power to stop making my identity a courtroom exhibit.
So I didn’t change it. I never felt I ever needed to.
Not out of denial. Not out of fear. But because of this name, the one I was given, I have lived a full life without him.
This Name Has a Story, and It’s Mine
I did, at one point, think about changing it. Maybe using one of my middle names instead. But it just never felt right.
It’s shown up in a lot of places over the years, on job offers, lease agreements, and love letters. It’s been whispered to my kid. Shouted across basketball courts. Used to order way too much pizza.
That name has held every version of me: the scared kid, the numb teenager, the messy adult, and the man who finally learned to tell the truth.
This name has nothing to do with him anymore.
It’s mine now, and yeah, I’m kind of proud of that.
It belongs to me.
The goofy, the funny, and the big-hearted Jack.
Me.
My Quiet Middle Finger
Keeping it was my quiet rebellion. It was me saying, you don’t get to define what I carry. You don’t get to stain everything you touched. You were one chapter. But I’m the author.
Healing doesn’t always look dramatic. Sometimes it’s as quiet as keeping your name and knowing why. If you’re curious what that kind of progress can actually feel like, this post on recognizing CPTSD triggers and finding progress might hit home.
It’s Our Story, We Get To Own It
If you’re holding onto a name that feels heavy, carrying way too much history, and you’re not sure what to do with it or how you’re even supposed to feel, I want you to know this:
You’re not messing this up.
This story is yours. It doesn’t have to be neat or perfect.
You don’t have to feel the “right” thing, whatever that is.
And you definitely don’t have to fix it, pretend it’s not there, or make it some kind of feel-good story.
At the end of the day, you get to decide what stays, what goes, and what you just live with.