What my name means to me

Decision to change my name

I grew up in a dysfunctional, enmeshed family that behaved like a cult. Self-expression wasn’t allowed.

Anything I would do as part of my natural childhood development, my family perceived as defiance or psychological issues.

The more I explored my identity and interests, the more my family perceived me as disgraceful, disrespectful and mentally ill.

Wanting nicknames

In middle school, I requested to go by Lizzie. My stepfather looked at me. “‘Lizzie’ sounds a lot like ‘lezzie’. And you don’t want you to think you’re a lesbian, do you?”

I didn’t even know what that meant! “Lizzie McGuire goes by Elizabeth.”

He rolled his eyes. “Well, you’re not Lizzy McGuire, now are you? If I hear from your teachers you’re going by ‘Lizzie’, you won’t be able to sit for a week.”

Not associating with my birth name

Until I was diagnosed with dissociative identity disorder in 2014, I didn’t understand why I didn’t associate with my birth name.

People around me expected me to be a pretty, sweet, compliant girl who never needed more than her caregivers cared to give.

I grew up in the type of family that has kids not because they truly want to, but because pregnancy was a consequence and abortion wasn’t an option.

My complex post-traumatic stress disorder (CPTSD) came in like a wrecking ball. I couldn’t help feeling like I was in someone else’s body, except I could sometimes witness someone else controlling my body as I watched from afar.

The person I actively chose not to be was the person everyone around me treated me like.

People don’t perceive other people for who they are, but how someone else fits into their biases and perceived reality. In my case, my family perceived me as who they wanted to be, not who I was.

In doing so, they also rejected who I was becoming. In my attempts to explain and work through the conflict, they dismissed my experience, invalidated my feelings and pathologized my autonomy.

Choosing not to be her

I actively chose not to become the type of person my family raised me to be.

The irony of their efforts is lost on them, but not me: They wanted me to live a “better” life and to be a “better” version of them, but in their image, so they could live vicariously through me.

Except…it’s my life. When I forced myself to live my life the way they wanted, I didn’t want to live my life at all.

They insisted this was because of the same mental illness that prevents me from being completely compliant and makes me see them as the “enemy”.

I don’t see them that way at all. Instead, I perceive them as people perpetuating generational abuse under the guise of love while they secretly hate each other — all because they self-medicate instead of attending therapy and truly reflecting on their life.

If anything, it’s sad.

They pushed me to attend therapy, so I did…and I learned to view my childhood, familial relationships and life experiences objectively and stop making excuses for other people’s decision to treat me like their property.

I realized I was becoming a product of them — how they were influencing me to become someone who fit their disappointed reality — and I didn’t like it.

I rejected that version of myself as a possibility. I refused to become her.

Over the years, I’ve realized she was a part of me, but she didn’t exist in the way they decided she did. She was my inner child part.

Trauma healing taught me that this part of me needed someone to stick up for her.

So I did.

Choosing my new name

I’m often asked how I chose Jane. It’s not a simple answer.

The complicated answer requires understanding dissociative identity disorder. I “woke up” one day when she said a character’s name aloud: Jane.

Saying it felt like saying my own name, though we didn’t understand at the time.

I think the name came from the Degrassi: The Next Generation character, Jane Vaughn. I can’t think of another time I’d have heard the name and it be memorable.

When a therapist asked, I referenced “Jane Doe”.

She thought it was problematic; I considered it akin to metamorphosis — that’s what I was going through, after all.

Creating Jane

See, renaming myself means creating myself.

I was never allowed to be myself or exercise my autonomy…choosing my name, renaming myself and exploring my identity as someone named Jane is me doing exactly that!

Growing up, people around me decided who I was, what I thought and even what I liked — even when none of those things felt true to me.

There’s also the fact that I didn’t want to be the way I could have been growing up. I didn’t want to be someone who was cruel because of unmet needs and repressed childhood trauma.

In a way, “Jane Doe” is an accurate origin story…

But to say I still consider myself a Jane Doe would be false.

My name represents defying odds, reclaiming my autonomy and expressing my voice.

It means identifying how my childhood trauma affects my life and relationships in the present, and choosing to work through it to end the cycle.

I am becoming the version of myself I want to live with, because that’s who I want to be.

I don’t need anyone’s permission to fly.

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