Naming Our Daughter After Someone We Lost: A Story of Grief and Hope
Naming Our Daughter After Someone We Lost: A Story of Grief and Hope
The Timing Nobody Plans For
My mother Sarita died on a Tuesday in March. Brain aneurysm, no warning, sixty-three years old and gone between morning chai and lunch. I spoke to her the night before about nothing important—her knee was bothering her, had I tried that new restaurant, when was I coming to visit.
Three months later, I peed on a stick and stared at two pink lines while the world rearranged itself around me.
I called my mother's phone number before remembering. The recording said the number was no longer in service. I sat in the bathroom for an hour, holding a positive pregnancy test and crying for a dead woman who would have been so, so happy.
This is the context in which I named my daughter. Not the Pinterest-perfect nursery context. Not the gender reveal party context. The raw, wounded, still-bleeding context of grief that hadn't finished its work.
My daughter is named Sarita. And this is the complicated, imperfect, ultimately right story of how she got that name.
The Complicated Timing
When grief and joy happen simultaneously.
The First Trimester Fog
Pregnancy in early grief is disorienting. My body was doing the hopeful work of building new life while my mind was still processing the end of another. Morning sickness and crying jags. Baby apps and funeral thank-you notes. Prenatal vitamins and sorting through my mother's jewelry.
I didn't think about names in the first trimester. I barely thought about the pregnancy at all—it felt abstract, something happening to my body while I was emotionally elsewhere. The name question felt very far away.
The Unbearable Awareness
Somewhere around week sixteen, when the pregnancy became undeniable—when strangers started touching my belly and asking when I was due—the awareness hit: my mother would never meet this child. My mother, who had held every grandchild within hours of birth, who had a sixth sense for when labor was starting, who would have been on a plane the moment I called with news—she would never hold this one.
That's when the name question stopped being abstract and started being impossible.
The Grief Timeline Myth
People talk about grief like it has stages, like you move through them in order, like at some point you emerge 'healed.' That's not how it worked for me. At six months pregnant, seven months after loss, I was simultaneously accepting and denying, bargaining and angry, depressed and somehow optimistic about this child coming into the world.
The name decision had to be made inside this chaos. Not after grief, but during it.
Whether to Honor or Move Forward
The internal debate about memorial naming.
The Case for Honoring
Arguments I made to myself for using my mother's name:
- Connection: My daughter would carry her grandmother in her name, even without memory.
- Continuation: The name wouldn't disappear from the world when I stopped saying it.
- Meaning: Sarita means 'river' in Sanskrit—flowing, continuous, beautiful.
- Rightness: It just felt right in a way I couldn't articulate.
The Case Against
Arguments I made to myself against using my mother's name:
- Burden: Would my daughter feel compared to someone she never knew?
- Grief transfer: Would I see my mother when I looked at my daughter? Would that be unfair to her?
- My own healing: Would saying the name daily keep the wound open?
- Her own identity: Shouldn't my daughter have a name that's hers alone?
The Conversation That Mattered
My husband listened to me go back and forth for weeks. Finally, he asked: 'If your mother were alive, would you consider naming the baby after her?'
Without hesitation: 'Yes. Of course. We talked about it once—she said she'd be honored but only if I really loved the name.'
'And do you really love the name?'
'I've loved it my whole life. It sounds like home.'
'Then it's not about grief. It's about love. The timing is just painful.'
He was right. I wasn't considering the name because she died. I was considering it because I loved it and her. The death made the consideration more complicated, not more meaningful.
The Family Dynamics
How honoring one person affects others.
My Father's Reaction
When I told my father we were considering Sarita, he cried. Then he said: 'You don't have to do that for me.'
'I'm not doing it for you. I'm doing it because I love the name.'
'But people will think—'
'People will think I loved my mother. They'll be right.'
He worried, I think, that the name would be an obligation rather than a choice. That I was trying to heal his grief by giving him a grandchild who shared his wife's name. I had to assure him, multiple times, that my reasons were simpler: I loved my mother. I love her name. I want my daughter to carry it.
The Sibling Complexity
I have two brothers. Neither of them objected to the name, but one asked: 'What if I wanted to use it?'
Fair question. My mother's name was now 'claimed' for one grandchild. If either brother had a daughter later, they couldn't use the exact same name (or could they? families handle this differently).
We talked it through. The oldest brother wasn't planning more children. The younger one said: 'Use it. If I have a daughter, maybe Sarita can be a middle name. Or I'll use Mom's middle name.'
The conversation felt awkward but necessary. Honor names in families require coordination, not just permission.
My Mother-in-Law's Grace
I was worried about my husband's family feeling excluded. Both grandmothers are meaningful, but we were honoring mine and not his.
My mother-in-law, with extraordinary grace, said: 'Use Sarita. Honor your mother. I'm alive—I'll make my own memories with my granddaughter. Your mother can't. Give her this.'
I don't know what I did to deserve this family.
Variations and Compromises
How to honor without direct naming.
Options We Considered
Before settling on Sarita directly, we considered:
- Middle name: [First name] Sarita—honoring without the daily weight.
- Initial match: Any S name—Sophia, Serena, Stella—same initial, different name.
- Meaning match: Other names meaning 'river'—Riviera, Afon (Welsh), Tallulah (Choctaw).
- Sound-alike: Rita, Sara, Sarina—echoes without exact match.
- Full name variation: Sara with the same letters but shorter.
Why We Went Direct
In the end, the variations felt like hedging. Like I was afraid to fully commit. I kept imagining introducing my daughter: 'This is Stella. Named for my mother, whose name was Sarita.'
Why not just name her Sarita?
The only answer was fear—fear of grief, fear of burden, fear of daily confrontation with loss. And fear didn't seem like a good reason to avoid something I genuinely wanted.
When Variations Are Right
For others, the variations might be the right choice:
- If the original name doesn't fit your partner's culture or language
- If the name is dated in a way that might burden a child (sorry, Gertrudes)
- If the loss is so recent that the direct name would be triggering
- If the family has complicated feelings about the deceased
There's no wrong way to honor someone. The variation isn't 'less than' the direct name—it's just different.
Living With the Name
What it's actually like, three years in.
The Daily Reality
'Sarita, time for breakfast!'
'Sarita, where are your shoes?'
'Good night, Sarita. I love you.'
The name has normalized. In the early months, every utterance brought a wave of grief. Now, it's just my daughter's name. The association has shifted: I don't think of my dead mother when I say it. I think of my living daughter, her tantrums and her laughter and her inexplicable fear of butterflies.
The name became hers. It's not on loan from my mother. It's hers now.
The Trigger Moments
Sometimes, still, the grief surfaces. When my daughter does something that reminds me of my mother—a head tilt, a stubbornness, a particular way of saying 'no'—and I say her name, the two Saritas briefly overlap. Those moments are hard.
But they're also precious. My mother exists in my daughter, not as a burden but as a presence. The name makes that visible.
What My Daughter Knows
At three, Sarita knows she's named for Nani, her grandmother who 'lives in the stars now.' She's seen photos. She's heard stories. She knows Nani loved chai and mangoes and singing off-key.
She doesn't understand death yet. She doesn't understand that her name is a memorial. To her, it's just her name. Which is exactly right.
Someday, she'll understand more. She'll ask harder questions. I'll tell her: 'You're named for someone I loved. Your name was my last gift to her and my first gift to you.'
What It Means Now
Reflections from the other side of the decision.
Not Closure
Naming my daughter Sarita didn't close the grief. That's not what memorial naming does. The loss is still there, permanent and unfixable. The name doesn't heal it.
What the name does is hold space. It says: this person existed. This person mattered. This person continues in some form, even after death.
Not Replacement
My daughter is not a replacement for my mother. They are different people. The name doesn't transfer one identity onto the other. Sarita-my-daughter is her own person entirely.
But the name connects them. When my daughter is old and accomplished, people will ask about her unusual name. She'll say: 'I'm named for my grandmother.' My mother's name will be spoken for decades beyond her life. That's not replacement. It's continuation.
The Unexpected Gift
The name gave my family a way to talk about my mother. When relatives visit, they say: 'Sarita would have loved her.' When my father video calls, he says: 'Let me see my Saritas.' The name keeps her present in conversation.
In Hindu tradition, we believe the soul continues. I don't know if that's literally true, but I know this: when I say my daughter's name, some part of my mother is still being called. That's continuation enough for me.
Frequently Asked Questions
Q1: How do you handle the sadness?
Some days, I don't handle it well. The grief surprises me still, years later—when my daughter says something my mother would have said, when I want to call my mother to share a parenting win, when I realize again that they'll never meet. The name amplifies these moments but doesn't create them. The sadness would exist regardless of what we named her. The name just gives it a shape.
Q2: What if family members object?
This depends on the objection. If someone feels excluded ('Why not MY parent's name?'), that's a conversation about equity and future children. If someone feels the name is 'too sad,' that's a conversation about their grief, not your naming choice. If someone has legitimate concerns about the deceased ('She wasn't actually a good person'), that requires honest reckoning. In all cases: listen, acknowledge, but remember that parents name their children. Others advise; you decide.
Q3: Do children feel burdened by honor names?
This depends on how you handle it. If every interaction is 'You're just like your namesake!' or 'Your grandmother would have done it this way,' that creates pressure. If the name is simply theirs—their own identity, with the honor as background rather than foreground—children usually report feeling special, not burdened. Let them own the name. Tell them the story. Don't make them live up to a ghost.
Q4: How soon after a loss is too soon?
There's no right answer. Some people need distance; others find naming an immediate comfort. I was seven months into grief when I decided, which felt barely long enough to think clearly. If you're still in shock, maybe wait to decide—but don't wait to consider. Let the name possibility sit with you while you grieve. It will become clearer.
Q5: Does it get easier?
Yes. The name that once triggered tears now triggers smiles. The association that once was death is now life. Time does this work, and the name helps time do it. Three years in, Sarita-the-name is thoroughly my daughter's, with my mother as beautiful backstory rather than daily grief.
Love Beyond Loss
My daughter is three years old. She is loud and stubborn and kind. She loves books and hates naps. She calls her grandfather 'Nana' and demands stories about her grandmother in the stars.
Her name is Sarita.
It's a river name—flowing, continuous, always moving forward. It's my mother's name, passed down with love and grief and hope. It's my daughter's name now, hers to carry and make her own.
When I chose it, I was afraid the name would trap me in grief. Instead, it carried me through. Every time I say it, I'm honoring my mother and raising my daughter. Both at once. The name holds both.
That's what memorial naming can do, if you let it. Not trap you in the past, but connect the past to the future. Not replace what's lost, but continue what matters. Not heal the wound, but give it meaning.
My mother is gone. Her name lives on. And when my daughter is old and accomplished, she'll tell people: 'I'm named for my grandmother, who my mother loved very much.'
That's all I wanted. That's everything.
Find names that carry meaning on SoulSeed—where every name can be a story.
