In Hebrew, it means ‘God heard’. Whether it’s about God hearing me or me hearing God, I don’t know. Maybe it’s both. In Aramaic, it means listener. Someone to hear a friend’s complaints. In Greek, it means flower. I like to think that this has more to do with growth than beauty. Someone that always has the motivation to be better. A blazing fire of willpower.

Samantha doesn’t have the appeal of other names. It’s not known for being elegant, but it doesn’t sound spunky either. Instead, it’s in between, as ordinary as the earth circling the sun. Nothing about it sounds that special. A light gray that wouldn’t catch the eye, but it’s not ugly either. It’s something comforting that has always been there. Maybe the ragged baby blanket that should’ve been thrown out a long time ago but is just too hard to let go of.

As far as I know, no one in my family has ever been called Samantha. I like that. There’s no legacy to live up to. There’s no relative to be compared with. There’s no history attached to the name. To me, that means freedom. A sixteen year old that just got their license. A kite that can go wherever the wind takes it. I can be who I am with no strings attached. 

However, my middle name, Eliot, has a different story. It came from my father and was passed on to me. When I was younger, I didn’t like it. It was like lemonade that’s just a little too sour and leaves only a bad taste behind. But, as time passed, it grew on me. It’s unorthodox, a little vibrant. A glimmer of yellow in a sea of blue. It’s connects me to my parents, but it’s not overbearing. 

Samantha Eliot. Not too ordinary anymore. It has a little more style, some personality to it. A nice, vibrant, sunset orange. The dress that catches someone’s eye in a store. A refreshing glass of lemonade on a hot summer day. The friend that hears about every problem and complaint. It has roots to my past and family, but it left me enough room to grow in the future. I’m glad that’s my name.