This week, we laid to rest my beautiful grandma, whose name I was gifted at birth. A few months ago when this day seemed to be heading straight for us, I was inspired to write this passage below about my journey from the rejection of my name to discovering what a deep honor it is to be named for your Grandmothers. I shared these words at her funeral and wanted to share it with you today. May we all get live lives as full and as long as my grandma was blessed to live.

I didn’t like my name when I was a little girl. In a sea full of Amanda’s, Jennifer’s, and Sarah’s (both with an H and without), I was Julie. Just Julie (if you know you know). And, I would have given anything to be something else. I remember one time even asking my mom if she would change my name. She said no, of course. Probably because she knew something about my name that I had yet to understand.

My name was special. When my mom was pregnant with me, she was sure she was having a boy. But when I arrived with my surprise of being a girl, she chose an incredibly special name for me. Julie Anne (with an E). A perfect little tribute to her mom, Julia, and my dad’s mom, Annie.

I grew up knowing where my name came from. From my mom telling me why she would not change my name, to my Grandma reminding me whenever I saw her that I was her namesake. There was never a question about the roots of my name. But to a girl dying to fit in, or just find her name on a bicycle license plate, it did not matter. I wanted to be someone else.

It wasn’t until I was almost 13, that I began to catch a glimmer of understanding of how special my name would be to me. My Grandma Annie passed away, and my Anne with an E, became an important part of my identity. A badge of honor that I wore proudly. Because what better honor than to share a name with someone like her.

So I moved through my teenage years, in a sea of Amanda’s, Jennifer’s, and Sarah’s (both with an H and without), and as I approached adulthood, I started to make peace with my name. I began to understand better much better it was to be a Julie. There weren’t as many of us, so it made the name start to feel unique and special. And at this point, I didn’t really need a personalized license plate for my bicycle or stickers with my name on them. I was free to just be Julie.

Then my only issue was the constant reminder or correction that I am Julie, not JuliA. I would say “It’s Julie. Julia is my grandma.” And I said this often. And I was always annoyed. Really, how hard was this? Julie. Not Julia. This continued well into adulthood.

And I grew up. The years began to pass, other grandparents passed, and eventually, there was only Grandma Harris, Julia. I watched as she aged, and I began to cherish every single letter of my name. Because I started realizing what my mom knew all those years ago. One day, it would be all that I had left of her.

That’s when my name became the most important thing about my identity. I no longer even cared when they called me Julia. It is a compliment. A testament of strength, resiliency, love, forgiveness, and grace. A name that means I can weather any storm, or face anything that life brings to me.

Thank you, Mom and Dad, for giving me the gift of my grandmothers’ names. For giving me a piece of them I can carry with me for the rest of my life.

I am Julie Anne (with an E), Granddaughter of Julia and Annie.