People called me by different versions of my name

When I was younger, I learned quickly than My name was complicated – Not only for the others, but even for my Dominican parents.

My full name is Shaeleigh Severino (pronounced “Shay-lee Se-Ver-Ee-No-No”), and throughout my life, it has become a puzzle People prefer to simplify Rather than solving.

At home, my parents sailed between calling me “Shay-Leigh” and “Che-La”, strongly influenced by their Spanish accents and their struggle to balance Dominican traditions With gentle adaptation to American culture. Before knowing it, “Che-la” turned into “Shayla”, a simplified and Americanized version of my name. Over time, even I accepted this like mine.

The school gave me anxiety

Each school year has started with anxietyKnow the new teachers would inevitably trip my name. I would feel tensions every morning before the start of the lessons, waiting to hear how teachers would try my name this time. Would they be uncomfortably in break, avoid visual contact, or just by default a nickname they had heard the others use?

To relieve discomfort, I quickly adopted my nickname – Shae, who spread like forest fires among my classmates. Each new version has created another identity layer, fragmenting who I was in pieces that did not feel more and more unknown.

This was not just a question of pronunciation – It was cultural assimilation, a desire to blend and avoid standing as different. The subtle pressure to comply and facilitate the lives of others often meant to move away from the cultural heritage anchored in my name. By allowing my name to be simplified or Americanized, I involuntarily participated in a wider erasure – an act which quietly removed me from stories, traditions and inheritance, my name was supposed to preserve.

A teacher told me that my name was important

But everything moved during my second year of high school, thanks to an unforgettable teacher.

The very first day of class, after hearing me mumbled in another simplified version of my name, she took a break and said firmly: “Your name is important. You force them to say it correctly or do not let them say at all.” His simple but deep words have deeply resonated with me. At that moment, standing in front of friends who had known me as Shay or Shayla for years, something clicked. I realized that I had spent too long to answer a name chosen only because it was practical for others.

From this moment, I started to insist slowly but with confidence on my real name – Shaeleigh. It was not always comfortable; Correcting the others was embarrassed, and it is always the case.

Sometimes I hesitated, asking myself if it was worth it. However, each correction has become easier, feeling less like a confrontation and more an act of quiet bravery. Each small victory – a new friend or colleague who does things on the first try – has been incredibly asserted. These moments remind me that even if fragments of my ancient identities exist, I recover and continuously reconstruct my true sense of self.

Nowadays, different versions of my name coexist, depending on the moment when people have entered my life. Old friends and family always call me Shayla, while new knowledge knows me like Shaeleigh. I learned to be patient with this mixture, recognizing that recovering your name and your identity is a continuous journey rather than one event.

I always stop when someone asks me: “How do you prefer to be called?” Because it recognizes the power and meaning of my choice. In these moments, I recover my agency, one syllable at a time.