Part I: The Roots

The Wounds that Shaped Me

Chapter 1: My Name – The Story Behind My Name

Welcome to the beginning.

Names carry a quiet weight, shaping us long before we understand who we are. Some are chosen with intention, carrying history and meaning, while others are given in haste, shaped by circumstance rather than careful thought. Mine belonged to the latter. My name was not chosen months before I was born; according to my mother, it was suggested by the midwife on the very day I arrived. It was simply a combination of my parents’ names. There was no grand story behind it, no family tradition, no deep meaning that I knew of growing up.

As a child, I never liked it. My older sisters were named Nora, Cherry, and Jasmin—names that sounded beautiful to me, soft and elegant, memorable in a way mine never seemed to be. My own name felt different, plain, ordinary, lacking the beauty I thought a name should carry. I often wondered why I had been given such a simple name and sometimes imagined what it would be like to have a different one. Names like Luna sounded mysterious, Seraphina strong and graceful. Those names seemed alive with possibility, while mine felt ordinary. I didn’t even like hearing people say it. Some pronounced it differently depending on their accent, others shortened it or twisted it into nicknames, and a few bullies found ways to make fun of it. Each time it happened, I became more self‑conscious.

As strange as it sounds now, I believed names carried power. I thought they could shape a person’s destiny, and I wondered if the reason I felt different was because my name itself lacked something.

 Then something happened that should have changed the way I saw my name. I was in Grade 4 when I was chosen to represent our small school in a Nutrition Month Quiz Bee. Schools from across the district were sending their own contestants, and suddenly, I was the one expected to stand in front of everyone and represent ours.

I remember not reviewing very much. It wasn’t because I was confident. I simply didn’t know what to review. What kind of questions would they ask? How difficult would they be? I had no idea. I just showed up carrying whatever knowledge a Grade 4 girl had in her head and hoping it would be enough.

When I arrived and saw students from other schools, the competition suddenly felt real. Some came from schools much bigger than mine. I was just a little girl from a small school, sitting there among contestants I assumed were probably more prepared than I was.

Then the Quiz Bee began.

The first questions were manageable. I listened carefully, answered what I knew, and waited for the next one.

One round passed. Then another.

As the competition continued, the questions became harder. Some were no longer simple questions about food and nutrition. They gave us definitions and descriptions, and we had to identify the correct scientific or nutritional term. I had to listen closely to every word, understand the clues, and search my memory for the answer.

One by one, contestants were eliminated.

Somehow, I remained.

I don’t remember every question anymore. I wish I did. So many years have passed that most of the words have disappeared from my memory. What stayed with me was the feeling: sitting there, listening, thinking, answering, and realizing after every round that I was still in the competition.

Eventually, I reached the final round.

By then, my heart was beating faster. I had come much farther than I expected. I was surrounded by students from other schools, and there was no time to wonder whether they were smarter than me or better prepared.

There was only one thing left to do. Listen to the next question. Then came the question that would decide the competition.

I don’t remember its exact wording anymore, but I remember what it described: the first milk produced by a mother after giving birth, rich in nutrients and important for the newborn.

I listened. Somewhere inside the mind of that little Grade 4 girl, a word surfaced.

I knew it.

“Colostrum.”

Then I waited.

Correct.

For a moment, I don’t think I fully understood what had just happened.

I had won.

The little girl from the small school who had barely known what to review had just won the district Nutrition Month Quiz Bee.

Then came the applause.

People were saying my name.

Melyn.

The same name I had never thought was beautiful. The same name I sometimes wished belonged to somebody else. Now it was being announced because I had won. I stood there trying to take everything in. I had competed against students from schools much bigger than mine, survived the difficult rounds, and answered the question that finally brought the competition to an end.

And of all the things I learned and answered that day, one word never left my memory.

Colostrum.

Even after all these years, I still remember it.

Perhaps because it was the answer that made me a winner. Perhaps because that one word became attached to one of the earliest moments in my life when I discovered that I was capable of more than I believed.

A few days later, I would hear my name celebrated again. It was our school flag ceremony. I stood among the same students and teachers I saw every day, but this time, our principal had something special to announce.

My victory.

When my name was called, the school erupted in cheers and applause. For a little girl who had once felt embarrassed by her own name, there was something strange about hearing so many people say it with pride.

Melyn.

That morning, nobody was twisting it into a nickname. Nobody was making fun of it. Nobody was mispronouncing it in a way that made me want to disappear.

They were celebrating it. They were celebrating me.

I wish I could say that was the moment everything changed. That I walked away from that flag ceremony suddenly loving my name and believing there was something special about me.

But I didn’t. I was still a child, and some beliefs settle so deeply inside us that even applause cannot immediately silence them.

I had won a district-wide competition. I had made my school proud. I had heard my name celebrated by an entire crowd.

And yet, somewhere inside that little girl, the old doubt remained.

Looking back, it seems almost impossible. A little girl could win a district‑wide competition and make her school proud, yet still believe there was nothing special about herself. But that is exactly what happened. The truth is, the problem was never my name—the problem was the story I attached to it. Somewhere along the way, I convinced myself that ordinary meant less valuable. I thought beautiful names belonged to people with beautiful destinies, and meaningful names belonged to people destined for extraordinary lives. Because I saw my name as ordinary, I sometimes saw myself the same way.

It took years for me to understand that names do not determine who we become. Character does. Choices do. Faith does. The meaning of a name is not found in how beautiful it sounds, but in the life lived behind it. Slowly, I began to realize that my struggles were not caused by my name, my disappointments were not written into it, and my victories were not limited by it. The power to shape my life was never in changing the name I carried—it was in changing how I saw myself. That realization led me toward something deeper: faith.

I began to believe that my name, no matter how simple its origin, was not an accident. It was part of a story that God was still writing. A verse became my anchor: “For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the Lord, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.” Those words changed the way I saw myself. My name was not a burden. It was a beginning.

If I could speak to the younger version of myself, I would tell her this: you are not defined by how your name was chosen. You are not defined by how others pronounce it, misunderstand it, or make fun of it. You are not defined by the labels you carry. You are defined by your courage, your choices, your faith, and your willingness to keep moving forward. And if I could speak to my future self, I would say: do not forget where you started. Do not forget the little girl who questioned her worth, who compared herself to others, and who wondered whether she was enough. She is part of your story. She is the reason you understand compassion. She is the reason you understand resilience. She is the reason you never stop growing.

Today, when I hear my name, I no longer hear something ordinary. I hear a life filled with lessons, victories, failures, heartbreaks, and second chances. I hear the little girl who stood on a stage and made her school proud. I hear the woman she became. And nothing makes it sound more beautiful than the way my husband says it: “Melyn.”

Closing Reflection

Life begins as a thread of experiences, each one shaping the person we are yet to become. The earliest moments, whether joyful or painful, leave their imprint on our hearts. It is in remembering them honestly that we begin to understand ourselves and gain wisdom from where we have been.

The child within us may still whisper old doubts, but we have the power to answer those whispers with grace, understanding, and faith.

Perhaps that is what growing up truly means. Not becoming someone entirely new, but finally learning to embrace the person we have been all along.

CONTINUE READING

I was beginning to learn that my name did not determine my destiny. But before I could understand what kind of life that name would carry, I would first have to fight to keep that life.

Next: Chapter 2 — The Illness That Almost Killed Me
The Year I Learned to Fight for My Life