I’ve spent the past 20 years regretting a major decision. Not the decision to get married – hands down, that has been the best decision I ever made. I regret that I caved to social pressure and took my husband’s last name.
Growing up, I never wanted to get married. I wasn’t one of those girls doodling “Mrs. Keanu Reeves” in the margins of her notebook. Becoming a wife and having children wasn’t in the plan, and so changing my name never occurred to me.
But the universe is full of surprises. When I met my now-husband, I knew instantly that the future I’d imagined for myself was going to change. After a whirlwind few months, he proposed and our life together was set in motion. Clearly, many things about me had shifted.
One thing hadn’t: I still didn’t see myself changing my name.
I never raised it with my husband because I assumed, as a modern man, he would understand. But when I told him I wouldn’t be changing my name, he didn’t react as I expected.
He felt our family should share one name. He worried our future children would be confused if mine was different. I held my ground and pointed out they would call me Mom – why would my last name matter?
After an emotional conversation, he backed down. He said he could make peace with it, but I could see how much it hurt him.
I asked other women for advice. They were shocked I would even think of keeping my maiden name. “It’s tradition,” they insisted, as though that were reason enough. I began to wonder if I was being too progressive. Would my future children be confused? Was I making our lives harder?
Knowing how much it meant to him, I finally told my husband I would take his name. The moment the words left my mouth, I knew I was uncomfortable with my choice.
After the wedding, I filled out the paperwork, cringing the entire time. I began introducing myself with my new Polish last name, despite how clunky it felt, and told myself I’d get used to it.
I didn’t.
I never got used to receiving mail addressed to my married name. When someone called it out, I felt a jolt of discomfort. That’s not my name, I would think.
People assumed I was Polish and asked about my heritage. I would cheerfully repeat the story of how my husband’s grandparents immigrated to Canada in the 1920s and built their lives in Montreal.
It’s a fun story to tell. But it wasn’t my story.
Many times, I wrestled with the idea of going back to my maiden name, but the sheer volume of documents to change was intimidating enough to stop me. More than that, my maiden name was tied to a painful childhood. After a difficult relationship with my parents that worsened in adulthood, I eventually cut off contact. It was not an easy decision, but it eventually brought me peace.
It also made this choice more complicated. Do I return to a name connected to hurt? Or keep the name of the man who has never – and would never – cause me pain?
I decided that if I was going to make this change, I needed a reason that felt bigger than discomfort. So I began paying attention to the moments when my married name unsettled me.
One day, a stranger asked about my Polish family history and I repeated my husband’s story, as usual. Suddenly, I had my lightbulb moment. His last name tells the story of him – where his family came from and how he came to be. And mine does the same for me.
Even with its difficult chapters, my maiden name tells the story of my ancestors, how they immigrated from Germany and why they settled here.
My name tells my story.
Once I realized that, I was set. I told my husband I was returning to my maiden name, and he was completely supportive. He understood and expressed that he felt badly for pressuring me years ago. He’s even been incredibly helpful with the monumental administrative work required to change it back.
A few weeks ago, my new driver’s license arrived. As I pulled the envelope from the mailbox, I saw, for the first time in twenty years, a letter addressed to the familiar name of my childhood.
Ah, I thought. That’s my name.
Heather Konchak
