Learning to Love My Name

I was named after Florence Nightingale, a British social reformer, statistician, and the founder of modern nursing. Nightingale’s influence was grand: her efforts enhanced hospitals, improving patients’ quality of life, and she formulated a new, creative way to visualize data—a polar area diagram known as the “Nightingale Rose Diagram.” Her altruistic and determined nature made her a powerful leader and a symbol of compassion and innovation. My parents admired Nightingale’s contributions to the world and named me, their eldest daughter, after her.

Behind Nightingale, my name is closely associated with the beauty and culture of the city that shares its name: Florence, Italy. Florence, known for its scholars and artistic history, was the birthplace of the Renaissance—a period that revived a deep interest in intellectualism, literature, and the arts across Europe. As a powerful symbol of creativity and sophistication, my name embodies the beauty of knowledge. It is derived from the Latin word florens, which means prosperous, flourishing, or blooming. 

Yet, despite my name’s beautiful, artistic, and historical significance, I struggled to embrace it when I was younger. In elementary school, I was teased about my name. My classmates would make jokes, slowly sounding out each syllable, turning them into different words. Combined, my name sounded silly and, in many ways, it was an insult. I was known as “floor rinse,” “the little janitor girl who rinsed the floors of Italy,” “the floor that everyone stepped on,” “Floor-ence,” and “Flour-ence,” like the baking ingredient. I became frustrated, hating these unwanted nicknames. I never understood how people could spell and pronounce my name incorrectly; I was constantly bothered by people spelling my name “Florance” and pronouncing it accordingly, putting unnecessary stress on the “a.”

I began to hate my name, resenting how it looked on a page, how it sounded when spoken, and how it felt on my tongue. Whenever somebody said it aloud, it sounded dull, monotone, and devoid of any melody. People often told me that I looked like I was meant to have a different name; my younger sister suggested that I should’ve been named Natalie, as I did not look like a Florence at all. Although she never gave a reason, her words stuck with me, and I often pondered why I didn’t look like my name. Such unrelenting and painful comments eventually dominated my inner thoughts, and I began to believe them. 

Prior to these events, I hardly thought about my name, but my classmates’ comments horrified me, erasing my confidence and rendering my name unattractive in my head. I wished for a new name, one that sounded lyrical and beautiful and would, by others’ standards, “fit” me. Lily, for example, was a name I dreamt to have; it felt elegant, pure, and reminded me of the beauty of my favorite flower at the time. My friends furthered my resentment, as they had gorgeous names—names that no one ever teased them for. I envied their “perfect” names, yearning to be named Olivia, Phoebe, or Grace.

Though small, another part of my name that always frustrated me was being unable to find it on souvenir keychains. Every time I entered a gift shop, I would scour rows and rows of keychains and pendants with meticulous engravings to no avail. Each time, after discovering yet again that my name didn’t appear on those neat stands, a heavy sense of disappointment would set in, weighing on my heart like a stone. Looking back, it sounds like a silly thing to get upset about, but when I was younger, I began to believe that my name didn’t matter; I felt unheard and insignificant.

Introductions became difficult. I felt like my name was never what the other person expected to hear. I overanalyzed every situation, hesitant to even say my name aloud. I dreaded the first day of school introductions. Whenever I enunciated my name, I couldn’t help but focus on how flat and bland it sounded to my ears.  

I started to go by nicknames—shorter, simpler versions of the reality I wanted to hide—and eventually accumulated so many that it seemed like everyone had a different name for me. Each name served as a mask I could hide behind, distracting the world from my real name. I couldn’t help but feel more and more disconnected from “Florence” each time someone called me “Flory,” “Flo Flo,” “Florida,” “Flower,” or “Flossie.”

Countless times, I am referred to as the city that shares my name. It feels like a script I know all too well:

“Isn’t that a city in Italy?”

“Yes, and it is my name.”

This interaction always frustrated me. My name didn’t feel like mine. Instead, it belonged to a beautiful city across the world, distant and veiled in a foggy memory. 

Finally, one year, I visited the city over holiday break. I was immediately enthralled by the ethereal beauty of its intricate architecture, especially that of the Florence Cathedral, and took every opportunity to immerse myself in the city that inspired my name. I saw street vendors at every corner, each one selling souvenirs to the passerby with Firenze, the Italian translation of Florence, printed in bolded letters. I experienced something phenomenal: my name was natural here. It was celebrated and remembered on every street. Seeing the city in person was truly a life-changing experience and, for the first time in what seemed like forever, I was proud and honored to share its name.

Following my trip, reading J.K. Rowling’s Harry Potter series made me more appreciative of my name. In particular, one of the novels’ characters stood out to me: Firenze, a centaur who was different from the rest of his kind. Firenze was willing to betray his own kind to support humans, going against the beliefs of his society. In the Forbidden Forest, he saved Harry Potter from Lord Voldemort, allowing him to ride on his back—a gesture most centaurs would not offer. His story invoked a sense of pride and compassion inside me, and our shared name held the weight of his legacy too.

 Not long after, I began researching Nightingale’s life and achievements, and I was awed by my namesake. Her resolute dedication and determination to improve the lives of others echoed deeply in my heart; I looked up to her natural leadership. Even though she had contracted an illness during the Crimean War and was bedridden for the rest of her life, she continued to provide support from her bed. Knowing that I was named after someone who was the embodiment of both altruism and strength gave me a new sense of confidence. 

I saw freshman year of high school as a new opportunity to come forth, make an identity for myself, and rebuild my relationship with my name. When I first introduced myself to a fellow student that September, I told him my real name. He replied by telling me that I had a very pretty name. Somehow, that small comment changed something within me. It was a simple remark said in a fleeting moment, but it was so genuine—the fact that it was said by a total stranger and not a close friend made all the difference. I chose to believe him, and it was like I was understanding my name in a new light. This subtle confidence boost went  a long way in my journey to love my name, and this stranger’s compliment showed me the power of simple words.

Since then, many people have complimented my name, some telling me that it sounds like a beautiful flower. Comments like these are always significant to me, as I adore flowers and the unique charm each one holds. To be associated with something so delicate and beautiful was a confidence boost I didn’t know I needed. Gradually, I began to embrace my name, finding beauty in its history and its uniqueness as I learned about the Renaissance in history classes. I remember sitting up straight in my chair and paying extra attention when my name was mentioned, once again feeling proud to share my name with a historical city. 

I have come to realize that my name does not have to abide by anyone else’s standards; it is mine, and it carries a significance no one can fully understand. At last, I can see myself and create my own meaning out of it. My name is not a word, but a story that is uniquely mine; its powerful resonance rings in my heart. I hear its melody, see its voluminous petals, admire its intricacy, and appreciate its art.

Names are a part of people’s identities, and for the first time in my entire life, I can say with confidence that my name is truly a part of me. My name is a celebration of the journey and struggles I’ve been through. It is a powerful representation of a great artistic revival and a timeless testament to altruism. What used to embarrass me has become one of my greatest sources of pride, and I am so grateful for that change—it allowed me to finally love something that has been and will always be a part of me.