Sydney.  Sidney.  Sydnee.  There are many different ways to spell this name.  My name.  

Since I could remember, I have always been a little sensitive to the way others spell or say my name.  I’ve experienced botched pronunciations and incorrect spellings, but none is worse than one not knowing my name.  

Names are ways to differentiate the personalities that make a person special.  I feel that my name is what makes me unique, even though I know many other “Sydney’s” in my town.  Because there are so many different spellings, people often get them confused.  “Hey Sid…” I’ve been texted.  “Order for Cindy!”  the Starbucks barista says.  That’s not my name.  

Frustrated, yet intrigued, I ponder the thought of the way my name reflects who I am for a brief moment.  Every time this occurs, I think about What if these people really knew me? They wouldn’t spell my name like this.  Did I say my own name wrong?  I don’t particularly like it when this happens, but it triggers the thoughts and the curiosity of my name.  What does it really mean to me?  To my friends?  To my family?  

My name is the color yellow.  My name is kindhearted, considerate, and attentive.  My name means “wide meadow,” which I think means endless exploration and curiosity.  My name means “I want to help other people.”  I know what my name means.  My name is just Sydney.  My name means that helping people is my passion, but I often mistake my love for helping others for people-pleasing behaviors, which often gets me in trouble.  My name is just Sydney, but I don't enjoy cold weather, being alone, or having nothing to do.  My name is just Sydney, and I used to play soccer, but I just recently quit after playing for 13 years.  My name is just Sydney, and I like being outdoors, feeling loved, and loving others.  My name is just Sydney, and I like knowing who I am.