Courtesy of the author
I’ve long felt like I have a stage name. It’s sing-songy, alliterative, and it rolls off the tongue.
When I got married last October, I knew I’d be keeping my last name. It had nothing to do with my husband’s last name, my career, or any other factor. I simply can’t imagine not having my name.
I didn’t always love it
Of course, growing up, it was something I took for granted and, at times, disliked. My name is Kirby Kelly — basically, two first names. The first day of a new grade in school was always a nightmare because I always got called by my last name in roll call. Back then, I hated correcting anyone, so I’d often just accept being called “Kelly” in defeat. I envied people with obvious first names like Sarah or Emily.
As I grew out of the awkward teenage phase and into my identity, I became a lot more confident and really began to embody my name. Around age 18, I moved away for college, thrilled at the opportunity to reinvent myself. I knew almost no one and was living far from home for the first time ever. My name became like social armor — I had a talking point in almost any room I’d walk into.
It was easy to build a personal brand
Once I graduated, I moved to New York City to chase a career in media. It’s not like having a special name magically opened any doors. But in a city where everyone shares a common goal of climbing the corporate ladder, any detail that stands out when you’re networking helps.
That was also the peak age of Instagram, when a username and follower count were like a form of social currency. Every aspect of you, from your job to your outfits to where you worked out or brunched, was an extension of your personal brand, and a good name only added to the image. Mine was like a catchy business card, easily remembered with little effort.
I never thought of changing my last name when I got married
I never thought about taking my husband’s name upon getting married, nor did I ever think about my wedding. I’ve never pictured myself as a bride, walking down the aisle in a big white gown. I’ve never had a themed Pinterest board, a dream venue, or a vision of florals and centerpieces, so it figures that I didn’t have a plan for my name, either.
My husband and I were friends long before we were anything else. We’re casual people, and neither of us is a hopeless romantic. We did a spur-of-the-moment courthouse wedding that felt very “us.” We had no guests (aside from two friends as witnesses), and no photographer (aside from the aforementioned friends’ phone camera photos).
Leading up to the big day, we tried on the typical nomenclature for size, mainly because I thought that was what you were supposed to do. My options were to become Kirby Man, hyphenate à la Man-Kelly or Kelly-Man, or have him take my last name. It’s not that I disliked any of these names; rather, it felt more compelling to exist as I always had. Why would I change my identity when the only thing changing was my marital status?
For some reason, keeping your own last name still feels a bit unconventional, but it seems to fit the rest of my life choices well.
Even as a married woman, I still find it shocking when one of my peers changes their first-and-last-name Instagram handle to that of their husband’s. Maybe it’s my casual attitude about marriage, or I still feel younger than I am (newly 30), but I just can’t wrap my head around it. Marriage is an equal partnership, and the idea that it should require a “giving up” of something, even willfully, feels suffocating.
I’m thankful I don’t have to give my name up — not even for love. My name is me, and I can’t imagine not being myself.
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