A Letter to My Daughter: The Story of How You Got Your Name
A Letter to My Daughter: The Story of How You Got Your Name
Dear Eliza
You've asked me this question a hundred times, starting almost as soon as you could form sentences. 'Mommy, why is my name Eliza?' And I've given you a hundred small answers—because it's beautiful, because we love it, because it fits you perfectly.
But you're ten now. Old enough for the real answer. The full story. All the meaning we packed into four syllables before we ever met you.
This is that story. I'm writing it down so you'll have it forever—so you can read it when you're twenty and wonder who you were supposed to become, or when you're forty and naming your own children, or when you're eighty and I'm gone and you want to remember that your name was chosen with overwhelming love.
Here's how you became Eliza.
Before You Existed
The truth is, Eliza, you almost didn't exist.
Your dad and I wanted children badly. We tried for two years before you finally happened. In those two years, there were doctor's appointments and tests and a miscarriage we don't talk about much—a baby who would have been your older sibling, who left us before we could name them.
After the miscarriage, I couldn't think about baby names. Names felt like jinxes. Like hoping too loudly and getting punished for it. Every time someone suggested we 'pick out names just in case,' I'd feel sick.
So when I finally saw those two pink lines again—the ones that would become you—I was terrified to hope. Terrified to plan. Terrified to name.
But your dad said: 'Let's pick a name anyway. Let's believe in this one.'
And so we started looking.
The Search Begins
We had almost no criteria at first. We just knew what we DIDN'T want:
No names from our exes (we both had an ex named Kate; Katherine-variants were out). No names too tied to pop culture (your dad vetoed Khaleesi; I vetoed Bella). No names that felt like we were trying too hard to be unique (goodbye, Jaxon and Braylee).
We wanted something... timeless, I think. Something that would work for a baby and a teenager and a professional and an elderly person. Something that sounded like a real person and not a character.
I made lists. Your dad made lists. We compared and crossed off and argued and compared again.
His favorites: Charlotte, Amelia, Grace.
My favorites: Violet, Josephine, Eleanor.
Nice names, all of them. None that made us both say 'yes, that's it.'
Finding Your Name
Eliza came to us on a Saturday.
We were watching 'Hamilton' for the third time (your dad was obsessed; I tolerated it). Eliza Hamilton appeared on screen, and I said, without planning to: 'Eliza.'
Just the name. Not 'I love Eliza' or 'What about Eliza?' Just the word itself, out loud, trying it on.
Your dad paused the show. 'Eliza,' he repeated. He looked at me. I looked at him.
We both knew. The knowing was immediate—like recognizing someone's face across a room, like coming home after a long trip. The name was right. It had been waiting for us to find it.
'Eliza,' I said again. 'That's her name.'
We didn't even know you were a 'her' yet. But we knew you were Eliza.
The Meaning We Gave It
Here's what Eliza means, the official definition: It's short for Elizabeth, which comes from Hebrew 'Elisheba,' meaning 'God is my oath' or 'pledged to God.'
That's nice. But here's what Eliza means to US:
E is for Eleanor. Your great-great-grandmother, who immigrated from Ireland at sixteen with nothing but courage. She survived the Depression, raised six children, and died at 97 having seen great-great-grandchildren. You carry her initial.
L is for Love. The love that made you, the love that named you, the love that will follow you everywhere you go. Cheesy? Maybe. True? Absolutely.
I is for Intention. We didn't name you casually. Every other name was considered and rejected until we found the one that felt purposeful. You are not an accident, not a default, not a compromise. You are Eliza on purpose.
Z is for Zing. (Your dad insisted on this one.) He said you needed a letter with personality, with spark, with unexpected energy. Z is the most interesting letter in your name—the one that makes people pay attention. He wanted you to have zing.
A is for Always. We loved you before we met you. We'll love you after we're gone. Always, Eliza. Always.
The Day You Arrived
You came on a Tuesday in March, three days late, after twenty-two hours of labor that I will tell you about only when you're old enough to appreciate my suffering.
When the doctor handed you to me—screaming, red-faced, perfect—the first thing I said was your name.
'Hi, Eliza.'
And you stopped crying. Just for a moment. Like you recognized it. Like you'd been waiting to hear it.
(Your dad says this is impossible, that newborns don't recognize words. I say you did. We've agreed to disagree.)
The nurse asked how to spell it. 'E-L-I-Z-A,' your dad said, and she wrote it on your hospital bracelet. There it was, in official hospital marker: ELIZA.
You became yourself.
Watching You Become Eliza
Here's the thing about names, Eliza: we choose them for who we HOPE our children will be. We don't know yet. We're guessing. We're hoping.
We chose Eliza hoping you'd be strong like Eliza Hamilton, who survived impossible grief. We chose it hoping you'd have zing, sparkle, unexpected energy. We chose it hoping it would carry you well through whatever life handed you.
And then we watched you become Eliza.
At two, you were stubborn. You refused to wear pants for six months. Eliza energy? Maybe.
At four, you started reading. You devoured books like they contained oxygen. Eliza Hamilton would have approved.
At seven, you defended a kid being bullied on the playground. You came home with a scraped knee and a new friend. Strong Eliza. Zing Eliza.
At ten—now—you're curious about everything. You ask questions we can't answer. You notice injustice before adults do. You're becoming someone I couldn't have imagined but can easily recognize.
You're becoming Eliza. The Eliza we named. The Eliza you're creating. They're not the same person, but they fit together somehow.
What Your Name Means to Me Now
When I call you for dinner, I'm calling all of it. The hope we had before you existed. The Saturday we found your name. The first moment we said it to your screaming newborn face. Every scraped knee and stubborn phase and proud moment since.
'Eliza, dinner!'
It doesn't sound like much. Four syllables, less than a second to say. But it contains everything.
Your name is my favorite word, Eliza. Has been since that Saturday. Will be forever.
What I Hope Your Name Means to You
Names are complicated. You might go through phases where you hate yours—maybe middle school, when everything about your parents feels embarrassing. You might wish you were named something else, something that didn't connect to a musical, something more common or more unique or just different.
That's okay. Your feelings about your name are allowed to be complicated. They don't have to match mine.
But I hope, eventually, you come back to loving it. I hope you see what we saw: a name with history and zing and unexpected energy. A name that sounds like a real person. A name that has carried you through your first decade and will carry you through the rest.
I hope you know that it was chosen with more love than words can hold. That every letter was deliberate. That you were Eliza to us before you were anything else in the world.
With All My Love
This is the story of your name, Eliza. The whole story, finally written down.
Keep it. Read it when you're naming your own children someday. Remember that names are more than sounds—they're containers for hope and history and love.
Remember that we loved you before we met you. That we named you with intention. That every time we've called your name for ten years, we've been saying all of this, compressed into four syllables:
You are wanted. You are cherished. You are Eliza.
Always.
Love,
Mom
P.S. - Your dad wants me to add that the zing is definitely working. He's very proud of the Z.
A Note for Other Parents
I wrote this letter for Eliza, but I'm sharing it because other parents might want to do the same.
Write down your name story. The reasons you chose what you chose. The meanings, official and personal. The moment you knew. The feeling of saying it for the first time to a newborn who couldn't understand but seemed to recognize it anyway.
Your children will ask. They always ask. 'Why is my name my name?' And you can give them small answers in the moment, but write the big answer down. Save it. Give it to them when they're ready.
Names are our first gifts to our children. The story of choosing them is part of that gift.
Find your child's perfect name on SoulSeed—and then write down why you chose it.
