My Name

ByMelissa Face

Caring for your body, mind, and spirit is your greatest and grandest responsibility. It's about listening to the needs of your soul and then honoring them.

No one had called me Melissa in months. Hearing my name was something I took for granted before the COVID-19 pandemic. But now I wasn’t spending time with the people who know me as Melissa: my co-workers, fellow writers, and friends.

I had been at home with my two children for months. Evan, age nine, and Delaney, six, call me Mom or Mama. I really don’t have a preference between the two as long as they aren’t whining when they say it. And I realize that I am fortunate to have wonderful little people in my life who call me Mama — even at 2:00 a.m. when one of them is sick.

Something happened when I stopped hearing my name, though. It became a whole other type of isolation, separate from the pandemic itself. Before I became Mrs. Face or Mama, I was Melissa. My name is of Greek origin and means “honeybee” according to a cross-stitch that used to hang on the wall above my mother’s dresser.

My parents named me after Melissa Manchester. “We loved the name, and there were no other Melissas around at that time,” my mom said. Then I began kindergarten, and there were three Melissas all seated in the front row of Mrs. Whitley’s class. From that moment until the start of middle school, I was Melissa S. That’s what I wrote on my graded work, what my teacher called during attendance, and what was written on the chalkboard — often with a checkmark beside it for talking too much in class.

Even though I didn’t love having to attach my last initial to my name in school, I never really had a problem with my name. I never contemplated a name change. Even as an adult, I have never thought a different name would suit me better. I am Melissa, and my name is a big part of my identity. Except during the pandemic, when a big part of myself went missing.

After a few months at home, I decided to do something just for me. I signed up for a writing class that I’d wanted to take for a long time. Before COVID-19, I couldn’t get to the class because of childcare concerns. But now that the course was being offered online, all I had to do was make sure my husband was home to watch the kids while I locked myself in my room for two hours on Tuesday nights. I was so excited to be enrolled in the class. I ordered a new journal, dug out my best pens, and organized my desk.

At our first session, the instructor began class by addressing us all by name and introducing our first prompt. “I want you to start by writing ‘Right now, I am,’ and then continue with whatever follows that,” she said. She explained that this is often a good way to get out the “ick” — everything that might be in the way of what we really need to write.

I started writing my piece. Ten minutes later, she asked us to begin sharing.

“Melissa, we’ll start with you,” my teacher said.

I cleared my throat and read my first line.

“Right now, I am happy,” I said. “I’m happy to be interacting with other adults, happy to be writing, and especially happy to hear my name.”（633 words）