Danielle & Emmanuelle

Our birth parents gave us names
like prayers folded into skin—
Danielle. Emmanuelle.
Names weighted with God,
offered in hope,
maybe in fear,
maybe for protection—
a shield for the journey they could not take with us,
a name to follow us
into a life they hoped would be better,
even if it meant letting go.

God is my judge.
God is with us.
That’s what they mean, they say—
as if that answers everything.

But we grow up
and carry those names into supermarkets,
into workplaces where name tags
are treated like invitations
to evangelize.
They read our names
and see a sermon waiting to happen.
"Do you know what your name means?"
they ask, eyes lit with purpose.
As if we should be grateful.
As if they get to explain
God
to us.

They don’t see the complexity,
the contradiction—
how God can be a comfort
and a silence.
A presence
and an absence.
A name spoken in love
and in power.

Our names were never meant
to be used this way—
as doorways for strangers
to step through with their own beliefs.
They were meant
to protect us.
To root us.
To keep something sacred
close.

But now our names
hang in the air
like signs we didn’t choose.
God becomes a question
more than an answer.
A shifting figure—
not always kind,
not always just,
not always near.

And yet, we carry them.
Not because of what others say,
but because someone once believed
those names might
hold us together
when the world did not.