Mikayla was a last minute change in the delivery room. A result of a tired mother in search of a name that began with an “M.” 

     An odd tradition, it seemed, but one that my grandmother, Maxi, had followed, and later, my mother, Michelle. But, Mikayla is...sticky. Confused whether it should be Micheala, the female version of Micheal, or Makayla, the reality tv star. A result of its brisk upbringing, I suppose. 

     My name is the number 7. A number that seems unlucky, but has an unexpected desire to stand out. It is the convoluted black Sharpie on a coffee cup, a confused Starbucks barista. Mikayla is rough. A jumble of letters in a messy pile, falling above and below the notebook lines a few too many times. 

     It is the color orange. It doesn’t belong to the reds or yellows. It is its own independent self. Mikayla is a tangelo...unsure if it should be a tangerine or an orange. A combination of two things that just don’t taste as good. It is the falling leaves of the new season, sandwiched between the sweetness of warmth and the sharp bite of winter. 

     When I was little, my best friends were named Sara and Emma. The most basic names. Names that they longed to change. Names other than the simple 4-letter words on their birth certificates. Names like Ashley, Allison, or Hayley. A name like mine. 

     But, some of my friends have said my name is too long, the three syllables difficult to dictate; some would probe for a nickname, something easier to shout from the sidelines of a soccer game. However, names like “Mack” and “Kayla” never belonged to me. These names were so black and white, so decided. My name is the gray area. Not the gray of a cloud shadowing the sadness of a storm, a softer gray. The silvery gray of a grandmother’s hair. 

     Apparently, the Hebrew origin of my name is “who resembles God.” I doubt that is what my mother was thinking, lying in a hospital bed, body fatigued and mind racing. Maybe it was the association of my name with power and bravery that was alluring. Maybe her last minute change was a symbol of the immense strength she holds within. The strength that I would also exhibit. 

     The strength of a young girl, trying to become smarter, faster, tougher, while everyone else slept. Strength that allowed that little girl to put herself ahead and persevere through any challenges she faced. A name of courage, of spirit, of independence. A sticky name. But, sticky like a smiling child’s hands after eating a bag of pink cotton candy. Sticky like syrup on Sunday morning pancakes. Sticky like the soothing sweetness of honey in a cup of green tea.