A few weeks ago, I was introduced to someone for the first time. They said their name—three beautiful syllables—and then added with a quick smile, “But you can call me [short version] if my name is too long for you.”
And just like that, something subtle but significant happened.
They shrunk.
Now, I’m not talking about stature. I’m talking about presence. About space. About the invisible ways so many of us—especially women, people of color, and anyone conditioned to be “easy to digest”—shrink ourselves every single day.
That phrase stuck with me: if my name is too long for you.
Too long for who?
Since when is someone’s name—the very thing that identifies them—something that needs to be trimmed down to accommodate the comfort of others? Since when did taking up space with the sound of your own name become an inconvenience?
I don’t say this with judgment. I say it with deep empathy. Because I’ve done it too.
I’ve softened the edges of my personality. Rounded out my opinions. Made myself a little smaller, a little quieter, a little less “too much” in rooms where I wasn’t sure how I’d be received.
So many of us have been taught that our fullness is a burden.
That our names, our needs, our knowing, might be too heavy for others to carry. So we carry the weight of shrinking instead.
But what if we stopped?
What if, instead of offering a smaller version of ourselves as a “kindness”, we played with expanding?
What if we flipped the script entirely?
Imagine saying: “My name is Kathy—but if that’s too short for you and you want my name to stay in your mouth longer, you can call me Kathyanaramani.” (Or something gloriously longer and more luxurious.)
Not to be difficult. Not to prove a point. But to delight in your own presence. To play with taking up space.
How does it feel to even imagine saying something like that? What shifts in your posture? Your tone? Your desire to be seen?
How we introduce ourselves is more than formality—it’s an energetic doorway.
It’s the outline we offer others to begin to know us. And if we shrink that outline to something small and convenient, how can we be surprised when people only meet a sliver of who we are?
What if, instead of minimizing, you gave people something real to meet?
Not armor. Not a performance.
But the full-bodied, take-up-space version of you. Like an owl airing out its wings. It’s breathtaking because of the expanse it takes.
Not everyone will rise to meet you. But the ones who do? They’ll see you more clearly. And more importantly, you’ll feel more like yourself in the rooms you walk into.
So here’s a gentle invitation:
Notice where you’ve been editing yourself to be more palatable.
Notice where you’ve been offering the Cliff Notes version of you.
And then—play with the opposite.
Say your full name. Add the syllables back in. Wear the lipstick. Or the boots. Or the weird metaphor you’re known for. Say the thing that’s too tender to put on LinkedIn.
Give us the version of you that isn’t here to be convenient.
That’s the version we’ve been waiting for.
And if you’re ready to go even deeper into this work—of expansion, reclamation, and remembering—I’d love to walk beside you.
This reclamation is at the heart of the experience we’re creating at The Awakening.
There are a handful of spots left for this 2 day, transformative in-person experience.
[Join us at The Awakening here.]
Because your name was never too long.
Your presence was never too much.
And your fullness is not up for negotiation.
