Is it possible for something as fundamental as your name, something you cannot control, to become your greatest insecurity? As long as I can remember, I’ve worried about other people’s opinions of me. I learned early to measure my self-worth by the look on someone’s face when I spoke. Am I too loud? Too quiet? Too tall? Too short? In elementary school, it was easy to be myself and fly under the radar, existing peacefully in a classroom of chaos, until we had a transfer student.

My teacher gathered all her busy bees on the plush carpet, each kid sitting in a square that showed something about them. “Does anyone want to guess our new student’s name?” she announced. The room buzzed with guesses, each one met with, “Try again.” Finally, she stepped outside, brought the student in, and said, “Bees, say hello to our new student, Ryan!”

I froze. Ryan? That can’t be right. That is my name, my identity. I remember every head snapping toward me, like I had dropped a pen in a silent room. At that moment, I couldn’t comprehend that someone else could share my name. My teacher quickly explained that we couldn’t have two Ryans, so we would be Ryan R and Ryan H, or more casually, girl Ryan and boy Ryan. Suddenly, I wasn’t unique anymore.

As I moved through elementary school, “get to know you” activities always ended the same way. “Isn’t Ryan a boy’s name?” The first time I heard it, I laughed and smiled, then turned away and broke down.

I would never tell anyone it bothered me.

I didn’t feel special. Inside, I felt different. With what personality I had at such a young age, I’d painted a perfect picture of this perfect girl, and to suddenly be questioned and compared to something I wasn't was a shot to the heart. The name ¨Ryan” has been a part of me my whole life; why is it just bothering me now? Was it because someone finally found out one of my insecurities, something that made me not perfect?

Four years later, something shifted. I realized I couldn’t live as if I were constantly being watched and judged. Entering high school gave me the chance to branch out and discover what made Ryan, Ryan, me, me. That freedom was a lifeline.

With new opportunities, I explored my interests without worrying about what was “cool.” I found Harbor Soccer, a small local club that became my second home. There, I discovered my passion for working with others, coaching younger teams, captaining my own, and refereeing games across the club. I was able to find my calling, my identity. Being able to work with a variety of age ranges and for a club that has a broader focus than just myself has helped me in opening up my mindset; that I should embrace the world just as the world embraces me. I had finally found a community that accepted people, not just for how they acted or how they looked, but for how hard they worked, and for who they were as people.

From then on, my goal shifted. I wanted people to know me for what I had accomplished, not for fitting into an expectation. Embracing what made me different gave me a confidence I had never known, and one I hope never to lose.

As I continue to grow, I realize I can’t escape my name. It’s who I am at my core, my identity. It's my job to discover what that identity is. In a country built on individuality, reinvention, and the belief that identity is something you claim for yourself, my name became a quiet symbol of that freedom. Ryan is more than four letters. It’s my story, my voice, and my place. And no, Ryan isn’t a boy’s name. It’s my name.

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