Woman Reclaims Her Name After Lifetime of Mispronunciations

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My Name, My Identity: Why I Won’t Let People Butcher It Anymore

My name is Nishtha. It’s a Sanskrit word meaning “loyalty” and “commitment,” a gift from my grandfather.

It’s not common, even in India, but its rarity always made it feel special, like a quiet source of power. Unfortunately, it’s also meant a lifetime of mispronunciations, reshapings, and outright butchering.

I remember my first day at a new school, a shy kid dreading the inevitable introduction. The teacher, during roll call, stumbled over my name.

“Nis…Nees…Nista…?” I quietly corrected her, carefully explaining the pronunciation.

She tried again, still wrong, then shrugged and moved on. This became a recurring theme throughout my school years.

Seven schools, four cities, and countless variations of my name – Nishka, Nishitha, even Nashtha (which, ironically, means “breakfast” in Hindi). Each mispronunciation chipped away at me, but I told myself it didn’t matter.

Until it did.

Moving to Ireland for graduate school brought a new level of erasure. Nish, Niz, or whatever was easiest – that’s what I became.

I tried correcting people, patiently explaining the sounds. Some made the effort.

Most didn’t. I started simplifying it myself – Nisha at work, Nessa for takeout.

Once, at a party, I even introduced myself as Nesta, a character from a favorite book. If I was going to change my name for their convenience, I might as well choose one I liked.

But each time, I felt myself shrinking, diminishing my identity to fit in.

The breaking point came during a holiday retail job. A colleague, without even attempting my name, declared, “I’m terrible with names, so I’ll just call you N.”

Not a question, not a stumble, just a casual dismissal. It felt like my name, my identity, simply took up too much space for her.

I said nothing.

That night, anger simmered. Not just at her, but at myself.

Why did I allow this constant diminishment? My name is my history, a connection to my ancestors, a gift from my grandfather.

It’s my roots. It’s not too long.

Not too hard. And it’s certainly not theirs to alter.

So now, I correct. Patiently, persistently.

If I can learn your name, you can learn mine. It’s just three syllables.

Nishtha.


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