Nora means light. It means the smell of sweet apples. It means honor. It means a single cloud on a warm spring day. It means passion. It means a pale shade of green. It means the number three. 

But the fact is, none of it means me.  

I’ve always been told that Nora is such a unique name. A bright name. A sweet name. An old name. A new name. A simple name. A different name.  But to me, it only means Nora. 

My grandma says it will be a big name one day. She tells me that I am supposed to do great things. 

When I was 10 years old, I believed her. I dreamed of my name in lights. on the news. in a book. At home I would look in the mirror and say my full name over and over. But “Nora Perugini” didn’t sound as great as “Taylor Swift”.the dream faded. I began to believe that my name wasn’t that special as my grandma had predicted. 

I started to hate my name. I was the only person who had that name at school. There were always Emma, Kate, or Madison. But never Nora. Never a person who had a name that was so simple but so different from the rest. I didn’t want a different name. I hated the feeling.

When I went to the gas station they always had a large wall of those keychains with names you would buy but never use. I can remember all the times I would endlessly look for my name. but each time I was disappointed. I don’t bother to look at those keychains anymore 

I still hate my name. but changing my name would mean changing me. I wouldn’t be Nora anymore. I wouldn’t be the smell of sweet apples, a pale shade of green, the number three, or passionate. I wouldn’t be me.