Anastasia, a biblical name of Greek and Russian origin which means “one who will be reborn” or “resurrection.” A beautiful name given to russian nobility back during the era of imperial Russia, and given to young girls today. Many may choose the name for its beauty or its meaning. The name was chosen for me for neither of those reasons. A joker, my father decided to choose the longest name he could when naming me. “So it wouldn’t fit on a scantron,” he explains to me. The joke’s on him, because it does. Anastasia Jaeden Kinnebrew, a twenty four letter name that fits on state issued answer sheets, and even leaves a little wiggle room.

Long and beautiful, a name somewhat unfit for someone as simple and plain as I. It’s a name quite cherished (after all it is the only one given to me) but one still changed for everyday life. A simple “Ana” is enough to get my attention, but an “Anastasia” gets it faster, my head whipping to the source of the call in an instant. That is a name associated with officialness, a name only called during doctors visits or trips to the office, or on the first day of school before I get the chance to say “Oh it’s just Ana!” It’s also a name associated with childhood mishaps, often hearing my given name called out whenever I would do something to upset my mother. Because of this, it is just Ana. It will always be just Ana.

Anastasia is my birthname. It was the name given to me, and while I may act like I absolutely despise it, I don’t. It’s a beautiful name, a unique name. For fifteen years of my life I’ve gone by Ana simply because I don’t feel worthy of Anastasia just yet. Anastasia is the name for a beautiful, mature woman. I’m only fifteen, almost sixteen. I don’t feel worthy of such a beautiful name just yet, so until I do I will bear with the misspellings and mispronunciations until I feel like I’ve earned the right to be called Anastasia.