Mary. A name that means “wished for child”. My name. How funny that my mother, who had three children before me, struggled to get pregnant. “I fought for you, baby” she always says. I like to think that this makes me her favorite. 

Mary. Simple. Sweet. Soft. Mary is someone who is always punctual, makes perfect grades, and feeds the homeless in her spare time. Not a hair out of place and not a wrinkle in her clothes. She is the perfect balance of confident and conservative. She knows who she is and who she wants to be. Mary is a quiet name. Something you would name a shy, young girl. 

I am not that Mary.

Instead I am loud. Rambunctious, funny, messy, and wild. I love to run free and thrive in chaos. My parents chose my name after my aunt. She, like me, is not that kind of Mary either. She has a  voice that echoes through neighborhoods and doesn’t compromise her values for anyone. 

Unlike the typical quiet Mary, my presence is always announced before I enter a room with my thunderous feet. My goofy impersonations make me anything but shy, and I rarely use my “inside voice.”

Being in church is the worst. Each time a priest mentions Saint Mary in mass, my mother will nudge me and wiggle her eyebrows almost to say “taking notes?” As if I have to live up to all the expectations of being Saint Mary and any Mary, all at once. 

As a child I hated my name. Kids at recess used to taunt me, singing “Mary Had a Little Lamb.” Yelling amongst the laughter “hey Mary, where’s your lamb?” But I never found it funny. As I’ve grown I’ve become more comfortable in my name, though. Embracing it even though I feel as if it misleads my personality.

As much as I don’t represent the typical Mary, when I think about changing my name I can never settle on another. Perhaps Noelle, my middle name? No, not Noelle. Mary will be my name, and that’s okay. Getting to know me will be a pleasant surprise then, and I’m alright with that.