Chicago-based therapist Rachel Kazes has said that a name change can be a powerful tool for survivors—a way to regain control after trauma. When a perpetrator repeatedly uses someone’s name, even hearing it later can feel unsafe. For some, choosing a nickname or middle name becomes a way to create distance and breathe again.
My evolution as a person—and my gradual separation from my family of origin—allowed me to finally see and name the abuse I experienced. Yet even after cutting contact, the name given to me by my adoptive parents continued to carry the weight of trauma for me. When I heard it, my body reacted before my mind could catch up. I’d scan the room, checking who had said it, instinctively trying to protect myself.
Not necessarily during an altercation, but during arguments, or when my adoptive parents spoke my name with disapproval, or when a family member used my full name, that name became tied to shame for me. At the time, I didn’t understand why—only that something in me had been activated long before I had language for it. Eventually, the pattern became clear: that adoptive name was the spark. Naming this truth forced me to confront a hard reality—my identity no longer belonged to that name, or to the broken and wounded version of myself it represented. Changing my name became a way to reclaim that identity. I wanted a name that reflected strength and resilience instead.
Still, I knew that changing my name wouldn’t magically fix everything. Healing isn’t that simple. But a name change can be meaningful when it’s part of a long-term commitment to healing. As Kazes explains, “Our name is about control, choice, and reclaiming oneself.” For some survivors, the suddenness of adopting a new name mirrors the suddenness of trauma—and offers a sense of release.
Living with childhood sexual abuse and a pattern of emotionally abusive adult relationships made me cautious. I asked myself whether adopting a second name would support healing, or whether it could become a form of dissociation. What I ultimately learned is that Vesna does the opposite—it grounds me. My Cambodian name gives me just enough distance to heal without losing myself. It anchors me rather than untethers me. Choosing it allowed me to preserve my heritage while also honoring my adoptive mother. By choosing my creative self over labels and stagnation, I’m reclaiming my space.
I am asking friends and family to respect this choice and to call me by my Cambodian name, Vesna.
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