My parents hate nicknames. 

The sole reason they picked my name was so that it could not be shortened. 

When my older sister was born, they decided to name her Julia. But my Aunt had other plans. She was the queen of nicknames. Jules, Julio, Julie. She thought of it all. So, my name was carved out of the individual reason that it could not be abbreviated. 

I wish I could say it worked. But nicknames are inevitable. My friends call me Rach or Ray. My Aunt calls me Raquel. I guess my mom got lucky in a way. Most people associate me with my last name instead. Blankenship. Such as Ship, Blanks, or RB.

My mom thought Rachel Lauren rolled off the tongue nicely. In Hebrew, my name means “ewe.” Which means sheep. But in English, my name means forgiveness and purity. And in Spanish it means innocent. It is like a child or the color white. It is a newly bloomed tulip in a field. Purity and innocence. 

But the color white is stark, cold, and isolated. My name is pure but it is cold. It is the fresh blanket of snow on a Sunday morning. You want to play in it but you know it is sharp, unfriendly. A child will jump in, one who is eager with excitement. The color white is the color of perfection. Yet I am not perfect.  

Rachel. A name that I bear with the utmost...uncertainty. 

To me, my name means toughness and strength. My name is the feeling you get after you just carried in all the grocery bags from the car on one arm. It’s the feeling you get after you just played a difficult piece on the piano. It’s the feeling you get after you just finished a hard set at the gym. 

It’s the feeling you get after you just climbed a difficult mountain in the blazing heat with a crowd of people. The sweat dripping down your face and the dryness in your mouth but that feeling of wanting to see it through and finish. That’s the feeling. 

My best friend has the same name as me. But her Rachel and my Rachel are different. Her Rachel is the sun rising on a Sunday morning. That feeling you get as the sun beams down on your face on the beach. My Rachel is the feeling of the rough track on your bare feet. The rubber surface scalding my soles. The black surface soaking in and radiating heat.  

Although I want to say I like my name, I’d be lying. 

But as much as I despise it, I wouldn’t change it. It is who I am. It is who I strive to be. Strong, confident, pure.