My name is Evee. Not Evie or Eve, in fact I dislike both of those names quite strongly. My dad named me Eve, but somewhere along the line, that little vowel that defines so much was thrown in there.
I remember the first time I learnt to write my name. It was on a laminated piece of card that spelled out E v e e, with arrows in the letters to guide me through. I sat with my pen carefully retracing my steps until I had it engraved into my mind.
The straight edge, the sharp dip of the v, and the curling cruising e’s that follow on. That sharp strike through the arms of the capital at the end.
There comes a moment where we ask ourselves “Who am I?” yet I’ve always been quite confident in my answer. So really, I like to ask myself “What am I?”. Am I cruel? Am I rude? Am I selfish? Am I tired? Am I hungry?
I am kind. I am hardworking and want to do something with my life that means something. I want to touch people’s souls, and I want them to feel at home with me. I want to be trusted enough that people can open up to me and know they will be accepted with their grief, mental health and life stories. I think kind and hard working are the qualities I work at every day. I want to choose these qualities because so many people assume these things about themselves, but really, we can see how far from the truth they are.
Another huge part of me is being my mum’s daughter. This is another active choice that I make daily. I choose to be the person my mum believed (and believes) I would be. I try to be the person I believed I would grow up to be.
But this being said, I also make a lot of mistakes. I make so many mistakes that I’ve run out of fingers to count them on. Mistakes have somehow led me here, in this room, to where I need to be. My name was a mistake you see, a happy accident in which an extra ‘e’ was thrown in because my parents thought that was how you spelled Evie.
I am a writer. I have never really been good at talking. I forget my words often, my voice is so loud that everyone hears it, and so many people have called me too loud, annoying, blah, blah, blah. My fingers however, no one has criticised. My trust lies in my hands. They carry the essence of who I am. I have quite big hands, yet they have so much to bear that I guess I needed quite big ones.
When I think of the truth, it winds its way out into the world through the act of writing. When I think of some of my hardest conversations, they have happened through letters. I don’t care much for texting, I care about long amounts of time being written into a folded piece of paper that we both care about.
I am just Evee. I am silly, loyal, a bit dramatic. I stick to the truth. I write my truth, and I let you have yours. I will never try to convince you of my position, because looking into your eyes and knowing that we trust each other is more than enough for me. I want to work on myself to be a better version of me than I was yesterday, however I also want to know that sat here, with my legs folded under me, my shoulders half frozen, and my little nose cold: What Evee is, is enough.
If you are struggling with sense of identity, or wondering where you can go from here, start small. What are you today? Then we can move onto your character, and we can plant seeds of new hope about how we want to be moving forward. Bless the sacred act of changing, my friend. Grow through what you go through. Do not come out the other side the same person, or worse, negative, trying to bring people down. Good people don’t have to shout about being good.
A good way to start this journey can be to work on knowing how you feel about small things. For me, it was how poetry made me feel. Gently and over time I managed to build up that relationship and trust with myself to understand how I feel about so many other aspects of life and identity also.
So what’s in a name? What is in your name? I would love to hear about your names origins, or what it means to you. I can’t wait to read these comments.
All good wishes, my friends.
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