By Isabella George

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This letter explores my journey as I navigate the challenges of embracing my asexuality, breaking free from societal expectations, and finding solace in a new identity, shedding my old one.

Dear No Name,

Your name, a delicate trinket of consonants and vowels, carries the weight of history—chosen by your mother, passed down like an heirloom. A queen had it first, then your great-great-aunt, and at long last, you. You admired it back then, when you were the queen of your namesake, gracing each and every particle of stardust with your smile, stuck on a self-imposed leash between your mother’s legs, stumbling and fumbling within your castle, yours. It was your name, your definition and perfection—that was the beautiful, oh so wonderfully beautiful part. 

I’m sorry No Name. A name that once felt like a castle to you is now left out in the rain, rusted and weathered, until it becomes unrecognizable—now a prison of expectations, a chain to this over-sexualized society. I’m sorry, but the name you once cherished has crumbled, picked at like a scab, replaced by a new one forged in the fires of high school corridors and secret meetings. It’s a dead poet’s name, resting now between my shoulder blades, a tattoo of ecdysis etched into the creases of my epidermis. The acceptance of this new identity arrived gradually, a name alive and well-suited, draped around my collarbones like a familiar cardigan, offering warmth and comfort.

I’m sorry again, for leaving you behind, killing you gently with fingers once intertwined, lips numbed by unwanted kisses, a struggle to understand desires that did not align. Ghosting messages—a silent plea for freedom, but they persist, a love unreciprocated. Is it fate to endure this until death? Don’t misunderstand me; I love and yearn to be loved, intertwining hands as we walk across the sidewalks of time, but I haven’t got any desire, the need of a lover, coming together as one for all of eternity. Why crave physical intimacy when emotional connection creates a more profound, eternal bond instead? Does that make sense, No Name? I can only hope that you understand it, even if others don’t.

I ponder and grieve the selfishness of not falling in love and the selflessness of pretending, grappling with the remnants of societal norms that insist on scripts I can’t follow. A hope for someone to intervene, to save me from a path that feels increasingly stifling. But eventually, they, my wardens, leave this prison, carrying with them the weight of misguided assumptions and tears of frustration and freedom, my kingdom come. The chains of expectation are shattered, setting me free at last. Perhaps I yearn for love, but that love doesn’t define me; it never will.

So, No Name, I say hello to the person I have become, marked by the scars of growth and self-discovery. You make it through, altered by the journey yet still tasting of stardust. The queen in this story, the survivor of a war, is reshaped by the storms of identity and love.

As the night falls, No Name, I send you love from the queen you once were, acknowledging the challenges and celebrating the triumphs of the journey. May you rest in the quiet acceptance of the person you’ve become.

With love,

New Name

Here & Now: Girls Write Now 2024 Anthology

Do not read this book, unless you want to know what real humans are thinking. Taking poetic license to express things in ways that make AI fear it will be replaced by humans, the stories in these pages reflect the here and now: a collective urgency as the pandemic recedes, the world overheats, wars overwhelm, and the national discourse is conducted in a language far from love. In these pieces, cooking unites families, supermarkets become places of connection and adventure, neighbors evolve into mermaids as the sea levels rise, and every month nails are trimmed to cut down memory. The smallest gifts in life become impossible blessings of gratitude. There is a sense of battle with the norms and an understanding that things are not right, but they will be. This anthology is evidence of a future worth fighting for in which the long tradition of building community through the written word is upheld during the highs, lows, and everything in between.

read here & now

Process

Here’s the deal with this piece – it’s a letter to my younger self. I stumbled upon this brilliant idea while surfing the web where someone, transgender and all, was pouring their heart out in letter form to their “Dead Name” – their old gender identity. Raw, emotional, and brilliant. I loved it! And you know what they say, great artists steal, right? So, I jacked the concept, gave it a twist, and reflected on my own journey with my name and my identity. It’s a letter to the younger me, full of wisdom, regret, and a touch of hope. Late-night musings turned poetic. Hope it hits you in all the right places.