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When I was younger, I learned quickly that my name was complicated — not just for others, but even for my Dominican parents.
My full name is Shaeleigh Severino (pronounced “shay-lee se-ver-ee-no”), and throughout my life, it has become a puzzle people prefer to simplify rather than solve.
At home, my parents navigated between calling me “Shay-leigh” and “Che-la,” influenced heavily by their Spanish accents and their struggle to balance Dominican traditions with adapting smoothly to American culture. Before I knew it, “Che-la” morphed into “Shayla,” a simplified, Americanized version of my name. Over time, even I accepted this as my own.
School gave me anxiety
Every school year began with anxiety, knowing new teachers would inevitably stumble over my name. I would feel tension building each morning before class began, waiting to hear how teachers would attempt my name this time. Would they pause uncomfortably, avoid eye contact, or simply default to a nickname they’d heard others use?
To ease the discomfort, I quickly adopted my nickname — Shae, which spread like wildfire among my classmates. Each new version created another layer of identity, fragmenting who I was into pieces that felt increasingly unfamiliar.
This wasn’t simply about pronunciation — it was about cultural assimilation, a desire to blend in and avoid standing out as different. The subtle pressure to conform and make life easier for others often meant distancing myself from the cultural heritage embedded in my given name. By allowing my name to be simplified or Americanized, I unintentionally participated in a broader erasure — an act that quietly distanced me from the stories, traditions, and legacy my name was meant to preserve.
A teacher told me my name mattered
But everything shifted during my sophomore year of high school, thanks to one unforgettable teacher.
On the very first day of class, after hearing me mumble yet another simplified version of my name, she paused and firmly said, “Your name matters. You force them to say it correctly or don’t let them say it at all.” Her words, simple yet profound, resonated deeply with me. In that instant, standing in front of friends who’d known me as Shay or Shayla for years, something clicked. I realized I’d spent too long answering to a name chosen solely because it was convenient for others.
From that moment forward, I began gently but confidently insisting on my actual name — Shaeleigh. It wasn’t always comfortable; correcting others felt awkward, and it still does.
Sometimes, I hesitated, wondering if it was worth the trouble. Yet each correction became easier, feeling less like confrontation and more like an act of quiet bravery. Every small victory — a new friend or colleague getting it right on the first try — has been incredibly affirming. These moments remind me that even though fragments of my old identities still exist, I am continuously reclaiming and rebuilding my true sense of self.
Nowadays, different versions of my name coexist, depending on when people entered my life. Old friends and family still call me Shayla, while newer acquaintances know me as Shaeleigh. I’ve learned to be patient with this mixture, recognizing that reclaiming your name and identity is an ongoing journey rather than a single event.
I still pause when someone asks me, “What do you prefer to be called?” because it acknowledges the power and significance of my choice. In those moments, I reclaim my agency, one syllable at a time.
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