My name in English means “Adam’s son”. My name means too many syllables. It is like a weight in your mouth, heavy and cold. It is the mess piled in your room, cluttered and out of place. It is forgotten Wednesdays. A subway station. My name is the structure of who I am.

My name means 3 am, when everything is static. It means formalities and growing up. Addison. I say my name and I think of my place in this world. I say my name and think of who I am meant to be.

My name is very masculine. I’ve shared it with a few boys in my grade. It’s embarrassing knowing more boys with this name than girls. The meaning of my name denotes it as mannish as well. Son of Adam. I always find that definition funny. I am not a boy, nor is my dad’s name Adam.

My name according to my friends is Addy. It’s shorter, bouncier than Addison. It is like a soft teddy bear, not cluttered or full. It is feminine. It is youthful. It is free of thoughts of the future. It means friendship and trust. It means warm days and relaxed nights. My friends say Addy and I feel more like myself and who I’m supposed to be.

My name isn’t special. Sometimes I wonder why my parents named me Addison. I vaguely remember my mom telling me it was because her and my dad liked it. Not because it has meaning, just because they liked it. It was spontaneous, she said. There was no planning, no anything, really. So unlike me. I wish it had meaning, something deeper than “We just liked it,” so I could have something to live up to. Something I can find purpose in.

My name is not me. I try to get by with Addy, a name I gave myself, a name I thought I would feel pride in. The thing is, I don’t. It is no different than Addison, a name that reminds me of everything I don’t want to be reminded of. If I wasn’t so afraid, I would probably change my name -- something more common like my middle name. Grace. I like that. It’s short and sweet, and doesn’t stand out. Addison is loud and congenial, and begs for attention. Grace is quiet and humble, and stays out of sight. Perfect.