The Name That Wasn't Mine

When I sit down to write, I find myself circling the same question:
Who are we—really—at our core?

Is identity something we inherit? Is it etched into our DNA, handed down through bloodlines and trauma like some kind of unwelcome heirloom? Or are we shaped—entirely—by the hands that raise us, the walls that contain us, and the love or lack thereof that we are given?

This memoir, The Name That Wasn’t Mine, is full of these questions. Not answers—because I don’t claim to have those—but questions I’ve asked myself in the quietest hours of the night. Questions that live in the space between memory and meaning.

Was I born angry? Or did the anger find me?
Did the fear grow inside me from the beginning, or was it taught—through slammed doors, raised voices, and the eerie silence of being forgotten?
Was I destined to carry the weight of my parents’ choices, or did I pick it up because no one else would?

For a long time, I believed I was just the product of a broken environment—a bad apple fallen from a poisoned tree. But writing this book has made me wonder if it’s more complicated than that. Maybe we are more than nature. More than nurture. Maybe we are what we choose to do with the pieces.

Yes, trauma shapes us. Yes, family—both by blood and by bond—carves deep paths into who we become. But so does resistance. So does questioning. So does the moment you stand up, even trembling, and say, This isn’t who I want to be.

I don’t think healing is about escaping your past. I think it’s about recognizing that while it may explain you, it doesn’t have to define you.

So again I ask: Who are we at our core?

Maybe we are possibility. Maybe we are what happens when survival turns into self-discovery. When inherited pain gives way to chosen peace. When we stop running from who we were long enough to become someone new.

If you’ve ever asked yourself these same questions, stick around. I’ll be posting more reflections, quotes, and progress as The Name That Wasn’t Mine continues to take shape.

Until then, keep asking.
Because sometimes the question is the first step toward freedom.

—Daniel Mateo Reyes