If you line up the names I have carried over a lifetime, you would see a map of my heart—and yet, these are only a few of the names I’ve carried over the years.

Some names came with youth and innocence—child, daughter.” Others came with the sacred responsibility of love and legacy—mother, mom, wife. Some are the sweet, playful names given by little voices, like Gheez and mawmaw. I have been the steady shoulder and quiet vault as a friend and confidant, and I have earned my living under the practical title of insurance agent.

I’ve also worn names given by a world that looks only at the surface—labels like cripple girl that tried to define my limits or summarize my struggle in a single glance. But those labels never knew the strength running through my veins.

Every single name—spoken or unspoken—has left an imprint. They represent the roles I’ve cherished, the burdens I’ve carried, the laughter around family tables, and the resilience forged in quiet valleys. I wear the warmth of those grandmama titles like a favorite sweater; I hold the loyalty of wife and friend, and mom close to my chest.

Yet, when the noise of the world settles, and I stand alone before my reflection, there is one title that rises high above the rest. It isn’t a role I had to earn, nor is it a label defined by my body’s limitations or my earthly work.

It is the anchor of my soul and the truth of my existence: I am a Child of God. I am the Daughter of a King.

All the other names describe what I do or who I am to others—but this name tells me Whose I am. It crowns every gray hair with dignity, fills every scar with light, and reminds me that no matter what the world calls me, my truest identity has been written in eternity all along.