In Hebrew, my name means to join or tie. It means peacemaker. It is simple, yet elegant, and complex. A silky crimson dress with a hint of purple. It sounds like the Sunday morning church bells. You can’t ignore it. It’s loud—yet important and meaningful. 

It was the name of a made-up character from my mother's favorite tv show; Life Goes On. My mother would sit down on the couch, popcorn in hand, and laugh as she watched the character care for her brother. The character was confident, never caring how much people made fun of her. She was happy and bright. A little bundle of joy. Like a present on Christmas morning. 

My mother always loved how well she cared for her brother. She was warmhearted and responsible. In hopes of having a daughter so caring and joyful, she named me after her. Rebecca. I may have gotten her name, but not her confidence. 

My whole life I’ve been called Rebecca. But I adopted the shorter name, Becca. Rebecca is elegant, formal, and proper. Becca on the other hand is carefree and adventurous. She is spontaneous, always taking risks. Rebecca sits in her living room reading a sappy romance novel. Becca lets loose and goes outside to look at the stars. Becca is who I like to be. Always running after her dreams and chasing the stars. 

I always wondered, why not just Becca? When people say Rebecca it sounds long, hard, and prominent. As if I’ve done something wrong. Rebecca booms across a room. Becca is soft and amiable. Not as loud or forceful. Becca is a sweet hello. A bright yellow sundress.

As a child, I thought my name was boring. It didn’t fit. I wanted to be a Monica or something beautiful. Like a princess. Now I like my name. I can be the carefree, adventurous Becca, or the elegant, calm Rebecca. I can go hiking in the mountains, but then come home and throw on a crimson dress just to watch the sunset. The name seems to fit me perfectly.