In Old English my name means hill. To everyone else, it means too many names. Too many wrong ways to say it. But—it also sounds like no other name when it is said right.

To everyone else, it means so many pretty things.  “Thank you?”  Is that what you say when someone compliments your name? Thank you, I didn’t come up with it. Thank you, I like it too.

It was a name that came out of a Debutante book that my dad printed at the family-owned printing shop. A Debutante is an upper-class young woman who has just reached maturity. It means fancy and proper. A pretty, polite, lady in her ball gown. But me, I’m far from fancy and proper. I prefer boots, jeans, and a little bit of dirt.

I remember many times that my dad reminded me, “that’s not very lady-like.” I’m not exactly sure who that proper lady is—nor does she know me. Brea. She didn’t know that her name would soon be a favorite of my parents. Would eventually be mine. Now we are just two strangers living with the same name. And neither of us will ever know each other. 

I would really like to meet her. I wonder who she really is. Does she accept the meaning of her name?  Or is she like me, defying it?

My Brea means bubbles. It looks like a roller coaster. It reminds me of rolling hills covered with bright green grass. No trees for miles. Unless a storm rolls across me, then the soft hills turn into sharp-pointed mountains. Brea, Colorado. Everyone within a 3-mile radius is in danger.

I used to want a new name. I wanted to be Rose. For a whole year, I wouldn’t let anyone call me anything besides Rose. After that, I became Elizabeth. 

I never wanted to be Brea. It was too different. I never wanted to be the hills standing so bare, looking so lonely with only distant trees. Until I realized I could stand tall on top of the biggest hill. Show everyone who I am. A little dirt on my boots. With no one to be compared to. 

Now I like Brea. It’s me. Sometimes it feels lonely and forgotten. Not many take the time to learn how to say it. It feels like that one blade of grass, taller than the rest. It sticks out to some, not everyone. 

It can be hard. But that’s ok because it’s me. And it will always be me. Not the proper Brea. Not the hill. Not the place in colorado. Just me.