Identity crisis

My legal (given) name is not Stacy. If you know that, you either know me well, or you have known me for a very long time. My dad gave me my name and a well-meaning aunt and uncle started calling me “Stacy” when I was just a baby. I have never felt like the person associated with my given name. I have always felt like a “Stacy.”

My name is not a derivative of my legal/given name. It’s not like the Richards of the world who are called Rich or the Williams of the world who are called Bill. My name is just my name. The only thing my two names have in common is that they both begin with “st.” Not like “saint,” but “st” like “stop” or “stuff.”

When I go to the doctor, I am called my by legal name. It’s on the insurance papers. It’s on my driver’s license. It’s on my checks. When I was a teenager, I wanted to change my name as soon as I turned 18. Well, it turns out that becoming an adult brings a whole bunch of other things that need attention. So I never legally changed my name. Now it seems like an unnecessary, expensive hassle. I know who I am. I am “Stacy.”

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