I Still Regret My Son's Name 7 Years Later: An Honest Confession
I Still Regret My Son's Name 7 Years Later: An Honest Confession
The Confession I've Never Made
My son's name is Hunter. He is seven years old, a second-grader who loves dinosaurs and hates vegetables and gives the best hugs. I would do anything for him. I love him more than I thought it was possible to love another human.
I wish I had named him something else.
This is the thing you're not supposed to say. Parenting is full of regrets you're allowed to voice—'I should have started sleep training earlier,' 'I wish I'd been more patient during the terrible twos.' But regretting the name? The very first decision you made for your child, the identity you gave them before you even knew them? That feels like a fundamental failure.
I've never said this out loud. Not to my husband, who loves the name. Not to my mother, who would worry. Not to friends who might judge me. But I've thought it almost every day for seven years.
I don't love my son's name. I never did. And I don't know how to make peace with that.
The Choice We Made
How Hunter became Hunter.
The Circumstances
I was 38 weeks pregnant and we didn't have a name. Not because we hadn't discussed it—we'd discussed endlessly—but because we couldn't agree. I wanted Oliver or Theodore. My husband wanted something more 'masculine' (his word): strong, athletic, not 'soft.'
Hunter was his suggestion. I didn't love it. It felt aggressive to me—like naming your child after a violent activity. But I was exhausted. The baby was coming. We needed a decision.
The Compromise That Wasn't
'What about Oliver Hunter?' I suggested. 'Oliver first, Hunter middle.'
He didn't want Oliver. He thought it sounded 'weak.' (It doesn't. It's a beautiful name. But that was his perception.)
'What about Hunter Oliver?' he countered.
I was tired. So tired. I said okay. I thought I'd grow to love it.
The Immediate Aftermath
Our son was born. Hunter Oliver. The birth announcement went out. The world knew him as Hunter.
And I felt... nothing. Not the joy I expected. Not the 'of course, he's a Hunter' recognition that other parents describe. Just a vague wrongness that I pushed aside because I had a newborn and no time to examine my feelings about names.
When The Regret Started
The slow realization that the name didn't fit.
The First Year
I didn't think about the name much during infancy. I was surviving on no sleep. The baby was 'the baby' more than 'Hunter.' When I did use his name, it felt foreign in my mouth—but I assumed that was normal. New identity, new sounds.
The Toddler Years
As his personality emerged, the mismatch became clearer. Hunter—the name—implies something rugged, outdoorsy, action-oriented. My son is gentle. He'd rather read books than play rough. He cried when we showed him hunting scenes in a nature documentary. He is, temperamentally, the opposite of what his name suggests.
I started wincing internally when people made hunter jokes. 'Going hunting, Hunter?' 'What's Hunter gonna catch today?' The name felt like a costume he'd been dressed in against his will.
The School Years
Elementary school cemented the regret. There are three Hunters in his grade. THREE. It's a trendy name, peaked in popularity around his birth year. The distinctive name my husband wanted turned out to be the same name dozens of other dads wanted for the same reasons.
When teachers say 'Hunter,' multiple heads turn. My son is 'Hunter K.' now—distinguished by his last initial like a common Jennifer in the '80s.
Why I Can't Change It Now
The practical and emotional barriers.
The Legal Option
You can change a child's name at any age. I've researched it. Court petition, filing fees, new birth certificate. It's bureaucratically possible.
But Hunter is seven. He knows his name. He writes it on his papers. He responds to it. He has an IDENTITY now—one built on being Hunter for seven years.
Changing it would mean: explaining to a seven-year-old why we're renaming him. Telling his school, his friends, his grandparents. Teaching everyone new habits. Possibly making him feel like something was 'wrong' with him that needed fixing.
My Husband's Perspective
My husband loves the name. Always has. To him, Hunter is Hunter—the name IS our son. Bringing up my regret would hurt him. It would feel like criticism of a decision we made together, even though the 'together' was me capitulating from exhaustion.
I've never told him I regret it. I don't know if I ever will.
The Sunk Cost Reality
Seven years of being Hunter. Seven years of birthday cards and school projects and introductions. The name is woven into his existence now. Unraveling it feels impossible—not legally, but emotionally and practically.
So I live with the regret.
Living With Regret
The daily reality of a name you don't love.
The Small Moments
Most of the time, it's fine. I call him Hunter. It comes out automatically now. I don't wince every time anymore—just sometimes. When someone new asks his name and I have to say it. When he writes 'HUNTER' in crayon and I think about how it could have said 'OLIVER.'
The Nickname Workaround
I've tried to create nicknames. 'Hunt' sounds even more aggressive. 'H' is too impersonal. There's no soft diminutive of Hunter the way there's 'Ollie' for Oliver or 'Theo' for Theodore.
Sometimes I call him 'buddy' or 'sweetheart' just to avoid saying the name. Is that healthy? Probably not.
The Middle Name Fantasy
His middle name is Oliver. The name I wanted. Sometimes I imagine a parallel universe where we went with Oliver Hunter instead—where I call him Oliver, where he writes Oliver on his papers, where the name matches the gentle boy he is.
It's right there. One name away. And completely out of reach.
The Guilt Layer
On top of the regret is guilt about the regret. What kind of mother doesn't love her child's name? What kind of mother wishes she'd named her son something else? I feel like I'm failing him by having these thoughts—even though he doesn't know about them.
What I Tell Myself
The coping mechanisms that help.
The Name Is Not The Child
Hunter is not his name. Hunter is a seven-year-old who loves dinosaurs and reads above grade level and makes up songs about his stuffed animals. The name is a label. The child is everything else.
When I focus on who he IS rather than what he's called, the regret shrinks.
He Might Grow Into It
Maybe he'll become more of a 'Hunter' as he grows. Maybe he'll discover outdoor activities, develop the rugged qualities the name implies. Personalities change. Names sometimes become self-fulfilling prophecies.
Or maybe he'll always be gentle, and 'Hunter' will be an ironic name—like a tiny Chihuahua named Brutus. There's charm in mismatch.
He Can Choose Later
When he's an adult, he can change his name if he wants. He can go by his middle name. He can use initials. He can reinvent himself however he chooses.
My job was to give him a name to start with. His job is to decide what to do with it.
The Regret Is Mine, Not His
This is crucial: Hunter doesn't know I have regrets. To him, Hunter is just his name. He's proud of it. He practices writing it in cursive. He likes that it starts with H like 'hero.'
My feelings about the name are my problem, not his. I can carry this regret privately without burdening him with it.
Advice for Parents Deciding
What I wish I'd known.
Don't Compromise From Exhaustion
If you don't love a name, don't agree to it just because you're tired of discussing. The discussion will end. The name will last forever. Find energy for the conversation even when you have none.
Both Partners Should Love It
A name that one partner loves and one tolerates is not a good compromise. You need TWO yeses, not a yes and an 'okay, fine.' If you can't find that name, keep looking.
Trust Your Gut About 'Wrongness'
I knew Hunter felt wrong before I agreed. I ignored that feeling. I told myself I'd grow to love it. I didn't.
If a name feels wrong, it probably is wrong—for you. Trust that instinct.
The Name Should Work for Multiple Personalities
Your baby might be athletic or bookish, outgoing or shy, feminine or masculine. The name should work for all versions of your child—not just the version you're imagining.
Hunter works for a rugged outdoorsy kid. It doesn't work as well for a gentle reader. I couldn't have known which my son would be, but I could have chosen something more flexible.
Consider the Long Game
The name needs to work for a baby, a child, a teenager, an adult, a professional, an elderly person. Hunter on a resume might work differently than Oliver on a resume. Think beyond the nursery.
Frequently Asked Questions
Q1: Is it too late to change his name?
Legally, no. Practically, probably yes. At seven, he has an established identity. Changing it would require explaining to him why we're changing it—and I don't have an answer that wouldn't hurt him. 'Mommy never liked your name' is not something a seven-year-old needs to hear. So I live with the regret and hope he never senses it.
Q2: Does my son know I have regrets?
I don't think so. I've never expressed it. I use his name normally (if not enthusiastically). He seems proud of his name—he certainly has no idea it causes me complicated feelings. I intend to keep it that way. My regret is not his burden to carry.
Q3: Will I ever make peace with this?
I hope so. Some days I'm closer than others. When I focus on him—his laugh, his kindness, his funny observations—the name recedes. It's just a word. He's a whole person. The word matters less than the person.
But I don't know if the regret will ever fully disappear. Maybe it's just part of parenting: carrying quiet disappointments alongside overwhelming love. Both can be true at once.
Q4: Should I tell my husband?
I've gone back and forth on this. Telling him would be honest. It might also hurt him, create conflict, and accomplish nothing—the name is what it is. Currently, I've chosen not to tell him. Whether that's right or wrong, I don't know. It's just what I've decided.
Q5: What would you do differently?
I would fight harder for the name I loved. I would refuse to compromise from exhaustion. I would insist on two genuine yeses before deciding. I would trust my gut when a name felt wrong, even if I couldn't articulate why.
I can't go back. But I can tell other parents: take naming seriously. Your gut feelings matter. The tired compromise you make at 38 weeks is the name you'll live with forever.
Love and Regret Together
My son is Hunter. He is kind and gentle and nothing like his name implies. I love him more than I thought possible. I wish I had named him Oliver.
Both of these things are true. They coexist in my heart, the love and the regret, neither canceling the other. I can adore my son completely while wishing I'd made a different choice about his name. These aren't contradictory feelings—they're just complicated ones.
I don't know if I'll ever fully make peace with this. I don't know if anyone who has true name regret ever does. But I know this: the name is not the child. Hunter is a word. My son is a universe. The word is wrong. The universe is perfect.
If you're reading this and you're pregnant and struggling to decide, please hear me: take your time. Trust your instincts. Don't settle. The name will follow your child forever. Make sure it's one you love—truly love, not just tolerate.
I didn't do that. I'm still paying for it.
But my son? He's wonderful. That's what matters most.
Find a name you'll love forever on SoulSeed—and trust your gut.
