My name has several meanings. In Greek, pearl. In English, strong and capable. Persian, child of light. White. Shining. Rare, ironically. Short and sweet, satisfying. Sunlight shining through the open kitchen window. Stroking the soft fur of a white cat. Softly playing coffee shop music, perhaps jazz.

Supposedly, Megan originated in Wales. But they shorten it to Meg. I do not go by Meg. Ever. My mom calls me nutmeg sometimes. Only she can call me that. I don’t mind nicknames but only if they make sense. Nonsense is not something I appreciate.

Megan can be spelled in a multitude of ways. Meagan. Meghan. Megyn. Meaghan. Those ways are wrong. All other spellings include unnecessary letters. Keep it short and sweet. That’s my advice.

I like that it means strong and capable. I like feeling strong and capable. I want to look strong and capable to other people. Pearl I find ironic though. There are too many Megans to be rare like a pearl. I don’t feel particularly rare. I don’t think my parents knew of the meaning when they picked my name. Though, my skin is as white as a pearl. I will give them that. If I had been a boy, my name would have had meaning. I would have been named after my father’s late brother. That has meaning. Megan does not.

To me, Megan is someone calling my name and four other girls turning too. It’s having to add my last name initial to my name all the time. It feels like being one among many. But there are so many of us. And power isn’t always in numbers. Differentiating myself from the others can be hard sometimes.

Sometimes I wish I was named something else. Something less...generic? Something less boring? Average? The meaning doesn’t seem to match with the feeling of being named Megan. It’s such a casual name, I wish to be formal sometimes. But that doesn’t work with a name like Megan. Too casual and too uneventful. But I wonder if having a new name would make me a new person. Would it change the way I think? Or the way I act? Maybe I’ll change my name someday. Only time will tell.