What's In A Name?

That's a pretty big question for a gal with a decidedly full epithet.

ZIP•PO•RAH – three, whole syllables forming a combination of sounds not often strung together.

Add my first to middle and last and you get the bounciest pattern that might've been penned by Dr. Seuss himself. I joke that my parents must've wanted your mouth to make every shape when you say it – I imagine one of those follow-along bouncing balls dancing over the letters – a little visual indicator of its rhythmic character.

That's just the sound of it, never-mind the meaning and origin. It's a lot of name to live up to – a lot of information to repeat – each and every time I meet someone new.

At about 16, I finally began to appreciate the gift of my name's individuality. At that age, as I grappled with youthful self-discovery, claiming my uniqueness felt important – and brave.

Zipporah sounded so..mature. It felt significant and intriguing and full of promise – as though it belonged on a marquee – while Zip conveyed a strange finality. It sounded diminutive and flat and oddly empty – zip, zilch, zero. For a kid with her whole, unimaginable life ahead of her, the latter seemed an ill-choice of moniker, so I began insisting people use my full name.

I imagined growing up would mean becoming a woman whose countenance and persona embodied the mystique of my given name – someone befitting such a unique mouthful of letters. I believed I had to grow into it – to make myself so immense in my accomplishments that I would feel worthy of the weight of it – that I had to be truly extraordinary to rightfully dress myself in the charming sound of it.

Such a grandiose, adolescent idea, that – such an impossible standard to live up to.

Not to say that I've failed, by any means, only that I recognize how hard I've been on myself – how unfairly I've admonished myself for not quite living up to my own inflated sense of who I might've become.

The truth is – very few people call me Zipporah. No matter how many times I introduce myself, everyone seems to naturally shorten it anyway. Ignoring that obvious fact, I've continued presenting myself as that imaginary person, hoping fake-it-til-you-make-it would find me someday believing I was her.

Now – at 42, I finally get it – growing up means letting go of all those outdated notions of who I'm supposed to be – softening into who I am – relaxing into what is by daring to acknowledge...

All those years ago, when I was Zip, my big brother, Zed, was the only one who called me something else. We were the two z's – Zeddy & Zippy – playful expressions of closeness.

I'm not sure when everyone else starting calling me that, too. Yet it has become the sound most commonly associated with me.

It took me a while to see it, as so often happens when you set your sights too high – you miss the thing that is right beneath your nose.

I'm rather amused by my lengthy oversight – it's been there the whole time, cozily nestled halfway between Zip and Zipporah – waiting for me to stop reaching so far afield – knowing I'd eventually remember who I am.

Zippy – sounds so whimsically alive – so playful and light – so alert and present. Feels appropriate and effortless. An absolute perfect fit.

Not so unlike Goldilocks and her third-time-charms – after a few ill-fitting tries – I've finally found my 'just right'.