There’s a certain kind of permanence in letting go of old identities – letting go of who we once were. A weight to it, a gravity that can either ground us or pull us under. I felt that pull when I first introduced myself as Avery—the name I chose when Heather no longer felt like mine. It was a moment that should have felt empowering, and it was. But also, it was heavy, like I had just severed something deep and unnameable. At the time, I couldn’t fully articulate what I was feeling. Now, I know it was because I was grieving the part of me that had to die, so I could finally step into the person I was meant to become.
For years, I’d been Heather, living under a name and an identity that had stopped fitting, a struggle that taught me the importance of letting go of old identities. But the thing about names, much like any identity we take on, is that they carry the weight of expectation—our own, and those of others. I was walking around as Heather, but inside, I had already shifted into something else. It wasn’t that I had outgrown the container of who people thought I was. But that I was picked up and put in a completely different container by factors beyond my immediate control. The old name didn’t feel like it fit anymore. It was for a version of me that I could no longer be, even if I wanted to.
I can still remember the exact moment when it all changed for me. It was when I introduced myself as Avery for the first time. It wasn’t a grand, dramatic event. No one gasped, and there was no moment of revelation for anyone else in the room. But for me, it was everything. The act of saying, “Hi, I’m Avery,” felt like both a birth and a death in the same breath. It was the moment I realized that Heather was gone for good. I didn’t just choose a new name; I had to let go of an entire version of myself that had existed for 37 years.
That’s the thing about letting go: it’s not always the big, obvious moments that carry the most weight. Sometimes it’s the subtle shifts, the quiet introductions, the filling out of a form with a new name. Those are the moments where everything changes, even if it looks like nothing is happening.
In that five-second moment, I felt the permanence of letting Heather go, and I realized that my journey wasn’t just about choosing a new name—it was about becoming the person I had always been underneath the surface, a journey of letting go of old identities. We all have these moments in our lives, where the identities we’ve carried no longer fit. It might not be as literal as a name change for everyone, but the feeling is universal. Whether it’s letting go of a job, a relationship, or an old dream, we all have to confront the uncomfortable truth that we outgrow parts of ourselves. Or that life circumstances change us so significantly that there’s no middle ground to come back to.
The hardest part for me wasn’t changing my name; it was accepting that the version of Heather I once was could no longer exist. There’s a grief in that. Letting go of old identities, and what no longer serves us sounds empowering, but it can also feel like losing something that’s been with us for so long, it’s hard to imagine life without it. But the truth is, we can’t fully step into who we’re meant to be if we keep holding on to who we used to be.
This realization hit me again in early September, when I attended my first Pride parade. Yes I know pride month is June, but our city celebrates again in September. I walked up to the street corner wearing my asexual flag—a part of my identity I’ve been slowly sharing with the people in my life. Up until recently, it was something I hadn’t openly talked about. Even though it was a part of who I was, it was easier to keep it tucked away. But being at Pride, surrounded by people unapologetically living their truth, made me realize how important it is to have spaces where we can be fully seen.
Introducing my mom to that part of me wasn’t easy either. She joined me to watch the parade. There’s always that fear of not being understood, or of being misunderstood in ways that cut deep. But sharing that part of myself, just like introducing myself as Avery, was another step toward becoming who I truly am. It’s not just about finding the right words or the right moment—it’s about finding the courage to say, “This is who I am now, and this is where I belong.
At Pride, I felt a deep sense of belonging—not because of the parade itself, but because I was finally embracing the fullness of my identity. Or at least one more part of it. And when the Aromantic and Asexual group marched by it felt amazing to see more people like me.
Really, though, I was standing among people who had all experienced their own five-second moments of letting go. Of stepping into the truth of who they are. And I realized, in that space, how powerful it is to let go of the parts of us that no longer fit and to find the communities where we are celebrated for who we’ve become.
What I’ve learned, both in changing my name and in embracing my asexual identity, is that the journey of becoming is ongoing. We are constantly shedding old skins and stepping into new versions of ourselves. And with every layer we peel back, we get closer to who we truly are.
But it’s not a process that happens overnight. It’s messy, emotional, and sometimes it feels like we’re losing more than we’re gaining. Letting go of Heather felt like a loss at first. I wasn’t just grieving a name—I was grieving all the expectations, memories, and experiences that came with it. But by letting go, I made space for something new to grow.
We all have to go through this process in different ways. For some, it’s a name. For others, it’s a job, a role, or a relationship. Whatever it is, the hardest part is accepting that we can’t move forward if we’re still clinging to what’s behind us.
Ultimately, this journey is about belonging—not just to a community, but to ourselves. It’s about recognizing that who we are today might not be who we were yesterday, and that’s okay. The people who love us will understand. And even if they don’t, it’s not our job to hold onto the versions of ourselves that they’re comfortable with. It may be part of our job to help them with the transition. But when you get down to it, it’s our job to become the truest version of ourselves, even if that means letting go of everything we once were.
So, as I continue on this path of becoming Avery, of stepping more fully into who I am, I’m reminded that we all deserve to be in spaces where we are seen, valued, and loved for who we truly are—not just for who we once were.
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