The Name Panic: A New Dad's Soul-Shaking Confession About Choosing His Son's Name

The Name Panic: A New Dad's Soul-Shaking Confession About Choosing His Son's Name

By a Sleep-Deprived First-Time Father

October 26, 2025 • 9 min read

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It's 3:47 AM. I'm standing in a hospital room that smells like antiseptic and hope, holding a 7-pound human who didn't exist yesterday. My wife is asleep—actually asleep, which I'm told is a minor miracle after what she just went through. The baby is wrapped in one of those striped hospital blankets that somehow all hospitals have, looking like a tiny, angry burrito.

And I have no idea what his name is.

Let me be clear: we had nine months to figure this out. Nine. Months. That's 270 days. 6,480 hours. We had time. We had apps. We had those ridiculous baby name books that my mother-in-law kept sending us. We had well-meaning friends texting us their "perfect" suggestions at 11 PM.

We had everything except a name.

The Moment It Gets Real

Here's what nobody tells you about naming a human: it's terrifying in a way that sneaks up on you. Early in the pregnancy, naming felt fun. Playful, even. We'd toss names back and forth like we were naming a goldfish or choosing a WiFi password.

"What about Sebastian?"

"Too fancy. He's not a butler."

"Oliver?"

"Every third kid is named Oliver."

"Liam?"

"Every fourth kid."

This went on for months. It was fine. It was cute. We'd laugh about it over dinner. "We'll know when we know," we'd say, like we were channeling some deep parental wisdom from the universe.

Spoiler alert: The universe doesn't give a damn about your baby name crisis.

The moment it got real—I mean really real—was in the hospital, about six hours after he was born. A nurse walked in with a clipboard and a smile that said she'd had this conversation 10,000 times before.

"So, what are we naming this little guy?"

My wife and I locked eyes. I could see my own panic reflected in her face. It was the same look we'd exchanged when we realized we had to assemble the crib. Or when we discovered that babies don't come with instruction manuals. Or when literally anything baby-related happened.

"We're... still deciding," my wife said, in a voice that was trying to sound calm but came out more like a hostage negotiation.

The nurse smiled. "No rush. You have 24 hours before we need it for the birth certificate."

24 hours.

I've had longer to decide what to order at Chipotle.

The Weight of Forever

Here's the thing that kept me up at night (well, one of many things, because babies): this name is permanent. Like, tattoo-on-your-face permanent. This isn't choosing a username where you can add "69" or "xX_" if your first choice is taken. This is a name that will be:

- Whispered to him in his crib

- Shouted across playgrounds

- Called out at graduations

- Written on job applications

- Maybe, someday, yelled by his own kids

No pressure.

I found myself spiraling into increasingly absurd scenarios. What if we name him something distinguished like "Theodore" and he grows up to be a ska punk bassist? What if we go with something edgy like "Axel" and he becomes an accountant? What if—and this one really got me at 2 AM—what if he just... hates it?

Because here's the brutal truth: he has no say in this. None. We're making a unilateral decision that will affect every single day of his life, and he can't even hold his own head up yet.

The responsibility felt like someone had handed me the Hope Diamond and said, "Don't drop this, and also you're walking across a tightrope. Over lava. Blindfolded."

The Great Name Wars

Let me tell you about the fights. Oh, the fights.

My wife and I had been together for six years before getting pregnant. We'd navigated moving in together, combining finances, surviving her vegan phase (RIP bacon, you were missed), and agreeing on whether to watch The Office for the fifth time (always yes).

But nothing—and I mean nothing—prepared us for The Name Wars.

It started innocently enough. She suggested "Harrison."

"Like Harrison Ford?" I asked.

"No, just Harrison. It's strong. Classic."

"It's fine."

"'Fine'? Fine?" She looked at me like I'd just insulted her mother. "Our son is not going to be 'fine.'"

"I didn't mean—"

"What about James? You liked James last week."

"I did like James. But then I remembered James from high school who used to eat glue, and now I can't unhear 'Glue-Eating James' when I say it."

"That's insane."

"Your brain is weird when you're naming humans!"

This went on for weeks. We'd veto each other's suggestions for increasingly petty reasons. She rejected "Samuel" because of an ex-boyfriend's dog. I rejected "Ethan" because it rhymes with "Nathan" and what if he makes a friend named Nathan and they become a rhyming duo and everyone hates them?

Yes, I'm aware this sounds deranged. Sleep deprivation is a hell of a drug.

The worst part? Everyone had opinions. Unsolicited, confidently stated, completely unhelpful opinions.

My mom: "You should name him after your grandfather, Lawrence."

My wife's dad: "Strong traditional names are best. How about Richard?"

My brother: "Bro, go with something unique. Like... Maverick. Or Blade."

My sister: "Please don't listen to him. Also, what about Henry?"

Random person at the grocery store: "You look pregnant! Boy or girl?"

My wife: "Boy."

Random person: "Oh, name him after a president! Presidential names are timeless!"

My wife, internally: I will name him Grocery Clerk Jr. out of spite.

The Midnight Google Spiral

Let me paint you a picture of peak desperation: It's 1:30 AM, I'm sitting on the couch, my pregnant wife is snoring (a new development that she denied happened), and I'm Googling:

- "Names that sound strong but not aggressive"

- "Baby names that aren't too popular but also not weird"

- "Names that won't get my kid bullied"

- "What if I name my kid wrong"

- "Can you legally change a baby's name immediately"

- "How to know if a name feels right"

The internet was no help. The internet is never help. For every article about "timeless classic names," there's another one saying "classic names are boring, be bold!" For every "choose a name with meaning," there's a "meaning doesn't matter, choose what sounds good!"

I fell down a rabbit hole of baby name forums—and friends, let me tell you, those places are intense. There are people who judge the hell out of names. Like, "I would NEVER name my child Jayden, it's SO 2010" or "Madison is a last name, not a first name, and anyone who disagrees is wrong."

I closed my laptop and stared at the ceiling. How did anyone ever name a baby? How has humanity survived this long when we can't even agree on what to call each other?

The SoulSeed Solution (Or: When Technology Saves Your Sanity)

Somewhere around month seven of pregnancy, when we'd probably considered and rejected 4,000 names, my wife found this app called SoulSeed.

"Another baby name app?" I groaned. We'd tried, like, twelve already.

"Just try it," she said.

Look, I'll be honest: I'm a millennial dad. I solve problems with apps. Can't parallel park? There's an app. Can't find a restaurant? App. Can't name your firstborn child? There better be an app for that, or I'm calling customer service on the universe.

SoulSeed was different, though. It had this Tinder-style swiping thing—swipe right if you like a name, left if you don't. And here's the genius part: both of us could use it, and it would show us names we both liked.

Finally. FINALLY. A solution to "I like it" / "I hate it" stalemate that had plagued us since month three.

We spent an entire evening swiping. And I mean the whole evening. It became weirdly addictive. Swipe, discuss, laugh, swipe again. Some names got immediate hard passes:

Swipe "Cornelius."

Both of us: "NOPE."

Swipe "Jaxon with an X."

Me: "Absolutely not."

Her: "Agreed. Why would we make spelling harder?"

Swipe "Blaze."

Her: "Is he a baby or a motorcycle?"

But then something magical happened. We started finding names we both liked. Names that made it to the "maybe" list. Names that didn't make us immediately think of someone we hated or a cartoon character.

The app had filters, too. We could look at traditional names, modern names, names by origin, popularity rankings. We could see meanings, which—despite the internet's mixed opinions—actually mattered to us.

And slowly, over the course of a few weeks, a shortlist emerged. Not from fighting or compromise fatigue, but from genuine mutual agreement.

That felt like progress. Like maybe, just maybe, we could do this.

The Shortlist Showdown

By the time we hit 38 weeks, we had it narrowed down to three names:

Option 1: Alexander

Pros: Strong, classic, tons of nickname options (Alex, Xander, Sasha).

Cons: Very popular. Also, my wife kept calling him "Alexander the Great" and I worried she had unrealistic expectations.

Option 2: Elliot

Pros: Sweet, literary, not super common.

Cons: Was this too soft? Would he resent us if he grew up to be a linebacker?

Option 3: Gabriel

Pros: Beautiful meaning ("God is my strength"), works in multiple languages, strong but gentle.

Cons: Would people assume we were more religious than we are? Would he get "Gabe" as a nickname and would that feel incomplete?

We couldn't decide. We agreed to "wait and see him" before making the final call.

Which brings us back to 3:47 AM, me holding this burrito baby, still frozen with indecision.

The Moment of Truth

I'm not going to lie and say there was some magical moment where the clouds parted and angels sang and I knew his name. This isn't a movie. This is real life, where you're running on 43 minutes of sleep and your wife just did something superhuman and there's a tiny person who's depending on you to make good decisions.

What happened was quieter. Smaller.

I was holding him, and he opened his eyes—those dark, unfocused newborn eyes—and looked in my general direction. And I just... started talking to him.

"Hey, buddy," I whispered. "I know you're new here. I'm new at this too. I'm your dad. I'm gonna mess up a lot, probably. But I'm gonna try really hard not to mess up your name."

And then, I don't know why, I just tried one of them out loud.

"Gabriel."

It felt right. Not in a lightning bolt way, but in a quiet, settling way. Like finding the last puzzle piece. It fit.

I looked at my wife. She was awake now, watching us.

"Gabriel?" I said, half question, half statement.

She smiled. The real smile, not the exhausted one. "Gabriel."

And just like that, after nine months of panic and spreadsheets and midnight Google spirals and app-swiping and debates and overthinking and soul-searching...

He had a name.

The Aftermath (Or: Did We Choose Right?)

It's been three months now. Gabriel is sleeping (sort of), eating (constantly), and has developed this habit of grabbing my finger and holding on like I'm the only solid thing in his universe.

Do I still sometimes wonder if we chose right? Yeah. I'm human. Last week I had a moment of panic when I thought, "What if he hates Gabriel? What if he wants to be a 'Mike'?"

But then he smiled at me—an actual smile, not gas—and I called him "Gabe" and it felt perfect.

Here's what I've learned: There probably isn't a "right" name. There's just the name you choose, and then you make it right by loving the hell out of the kid who carries it.

Gabriel won't be defined by his name. He'll define it. He'll make it his own. He'll grow into it or change it or shorten it or go by his middle name (which is "James," by the way—we squeezed it in there).

The name panic I felt—that soul-shaking, 3-AM-existential-crisis feeling—was real. It was valid. Naming a human is one of the first big decisions you make as a parent, and it sets the tone for every decision after: What will we feed him? What school? What values? What kind of people do we want to raise him to be?

But it's also just a name. A beautiful, important, meaningful name. But in the end, what matters more is what comes after: the way you say it when he's crying at 2 AM, the way you whisper it when you kiss him goodnight, the way you shout it with joy when he takes his first steps.

For the Parents-to-Be in the Thick of It

If you're reading this at 2 AM, eight months pregnant, with seventeen tabs open and a list of 500 names that all sound wrong, I see you. I was you. Hell, in some ways, I still am you, just with a baby attached to my chest as I type this with one hand.

Here's my advice, from one panicked parent to another:

It's okay to not know. The "you'll just know when you see them" advice is sometimes true, sometimes not. We didn't know until we knew, and even then we weren't 100% certain. Uncertainty is part of this gig now.

Use the tools. We're lucky to live in an age where technology can help. Apps like SoulSeed actually helped us find common ground when we were ready to veto each other into oblivion. Sometimes a good filter system is better than a thousand opinions from well-meaning relatives.

Say it out loud. This sounds dumb, but actually speak the names you're considering. Whisper them, shout them, use them in sentences. "Gabriel, stop eating the dog's food." "Come here, Gabriel." "I love you, Gabriel." You'll feel which ones feel weird and which ones feel right.

The meaning matters (if it matters to you). Some people don't care about name meanings, and that's fine. We did. "God is my strength" felt like something we wanted our son to carry, even if neither of us is particularly religious. Find what matters to you.

Ignore the haters. Someone will hate every name. Every. Single. One. Name him John and someone will say it's boring. Name him Zephyr and someone will say it's pretentious. You cannot win this game, so don't play it.

Trust your gut, eventually. After all the apps and lists and debates, there comes a moment where you just have to decide. It doesn't have to be perfect. It just has to be yours.

Final Thoughts from the Trenches

Gabriel is crying now. It's the "I'm hungry" cry, not the "something is horribly wrong" cry—I'm learning the differences, slowly.

Looking back, the name panic seems almost quaint now. Like, past-me was worried about choosing the perfect name while present-me is worried about whether his poop is the right color (it's never the color you expect, by the way).

But I'm glad I took it seriously. I'm glad we agonized and debated and tried things out and used every tool at our disposal. Because this little guy—this Gabriel James, this tiny human with his dad's nose and his mom's stubborn streak—he deserved that care.

He deserved parents who gave a damn about what he'd be called for the rest of his life.

Even if it meant some sleepless nights, some ridiculous arguments, and a lot of panic.

So here's to all the parents in the thick of the name panic. You're going to figure it out. And when you do, whether it's the name you chose at week 12 or the one that hits you at 3 AM in a hospital room, it's going to be perfect.

Because it's your kid's name. And that makes it exactly right.

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About the Author:

A first-time dad currently running on coffee and adrenaline, surviving one diaper at a time. Still occasionally Googling "is this normal" at 4 AM. Gabriel James is three months old and already cooler than his dad will ever be.

P.S. - If you're in the name-choosing trenches right now, check out SoulSeed. It won't make the decision for you (nothing can), but it might help you and your partner actually agree on something, which is half the battle. Also, the swipe thing is oddly therapeutic when you're stressed. Trust me on this.

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Tags: baby names, parenting, new dad, first time parents, pregnancy, name anxiety, baby name apps, SoulSeed, real parenting, honest parenting, dad blog