“And the runner-up goes to…Megan!” My seventh-grade teacher’s voice thundered throughout the auditorium. Great. Another second place. Another time my work does not add up to the desired result. Another point my loved ones have to plaster on a beaming grin and applaud; their eyes tell a desperate story despite their smiles. I think to myself.

In Welsh, my name means pearl. However, it is quite the opposite. It is harsh unlike a delicate pearl. It is the quiet whispers as strangers pass by. It means crossing my arms when someone looks my way. It sticks out like a sore thumb.

The name belonged to thousands before me, but now it is mine. It is a responsibility I dread to bear. Not as royal as Meghan Markle. Not as glamorous as Megan Fox. Not as smiley as Megan Mullally. My name is expectations.

“Kaitlyn is so much prettier! Think of all the beautiful cursive K’s she could write when she grows up. Megan is a generic name,” my mother pleads with my father. It is settling. It is my mother begging for Kaitlyn, but my father insisting on Megan. It is disappointment. It is like the number five—just in the middle.

My mother calls me Nutmeg which makes perfect sense. Nutmeg is the second spice chosen, never the first. Megan is second place, never first.

My name represents A grades for self-validation because I never win any awards to prove my progress. It is finishing essays last minute because I fear failure. My name is shifting eyes to avoid eye contact.

My name represents my smile faltering every moment I hear it. My legs shake as I wander the hallways. My name mutters silence.

However, just like one’s silence, names can be changed. My name shows the smiles from every memory of my life.