What Is Your Name?

 

Recently, I had a conversation with someone who was sharing a situation she was navigating and trying to figure out how to connect with another person. As she talked, a question came to mind: “What is your name?”

It may seem like a simple question, but our names carry significance. Our names are part of our identity. They are connected to our stories, our relationships, and our sense of belonging. When someone takes the time to learn and remember our name, there is an opportunity to feel seen, known, and valued.

Knowing someone's name can be the beginning of connection. It can be the first step toward building a relationship. And sometimes, that simple question can open the door to something much deeper.

As I thought about this question, I was reminded of the encounter Jesus had with a man living among the tombs in Mark 5:1–20.

This man had been separated from his community. He lived among the tombs, and people had tried to restrain him. His life was marked by isolation, suffering, and circumstances that left him on the margins of society. He was someone others feared rather than someone they knew how to help.

Then Jesus approached him. In the middle of this encounter, Jesus asked, “What is your name?” I wonder what that question felt like to the man.

When was the last time someone had asked him his name? When was the last time someone had looked beyond his circumstances and seen him as a person? Had anyone recently tried to connect with him rather than control him, avoid him, or keep their distance?

We cannot know exactly what went through his mind, but I wonder if Jesus' question interrupted the story others had come to associate with him. He was more than the place where he lived. More than the condition he was experiencing. More than the fear he stirred in others. He was a person standing before Jesus.

Jesus' question was part of an encounter that led to restoration. By the end of the story, the man was sitting, clothed, and in his right mind. Jesus sent him home to his people to tell them what the Lord had done for him. What began as an encounter with someone living in isolation became a story of healing, renewed connection, and a restored place in the community.

Sometimes, being seen as a person is the beginning of a different story.

Life transitions have a way of disrupting our sense of identity. When we leave a job, move to a new place, experience the loss of a loved one, navigate a health diagnosis, or step into an unfamiliar season, we may find ourselves asking questions about who we are.

We might no longer have the same role, routines, relationships, or community that once helped define us. The titles we carried may change. The people who knew our stories may no longer be nearby. We may find ourselves in places where no one knows our name or understands what we have experienced.

In these moments, it is easy to become identified by our circumstances. We become the person who lost a job, the one who moved away, the caregiver, the one who is grieving, or the person trying to figure out what comes next.

Those experiences are part of our stories, but they are not the entirety of who we are. So, what if we paused long enough to ask ourselves a different question? “What is my name?”

Not simply the name on our identification, but the deeper question of who we are beneath the roles, responsibilities, expectations, and circumstances. What matters to you? What values continue to guide you? What parts of yourself have been overlooked while you have been busy navigating the transition? What do you need to acknowledge, grieve, nurture, or rediscover?

Perhaps this question invites you to reconnect with a part of yourself that has been lost in the demands of life. Perhaps it reminds you that your worth has not disappeared because your circumstances have changed. You are still a person worthy of connection, care, and belonging.

Healing does not always begin with having a plan or knowing the next step. Sometimes, it begins with being willing to acknowledge where we are and who we are in the midst of it.

Asking “What is your name?” can become an invitation to slow down and pay attention. It might invite you to recognize the grief you have been carrying, admit that you are struggling, or acknowledge a longing for connection. It might help you recognize that you need support rather than continuing to manage everything on your own.

And sometimes, the question is an invitation to connect with someone else. In the middle of a difficult conversation, we can become so focused on solving the problem that we overlook the person experiencing it. We search for the right words, the perfect solution, or the next action to take.

But what if we begin by getting to know the person? What if we become curious about their story, listen without rushing to fix things, and create space for them to feel seen and heard? We may not be able to change their circumstances. We may not have answers to their questions. But we can offer the gift of presence and the beginning of a relationship.

Connection does not require us to have everything figured out. It begins with a willingness to see one another as people.

Transitions often ask us to let go of what was familiar while learning to live into what is new. Along the way, we may need reminders that we are more than what we have lost, what we do, or what we are experiencing.

In Mark 5, Jesus encountered a man whose life had become defined by isolation and suffering. Yet his story did not end there. He experienced restoration and was sent back to his community with a story to tell.

What if, in the middle of your own transition, you allowed yourself to be seen beyond your circumstances? What if you offered that same gift to someone else?

What is your name?

May this question become an invitation to connection, a moment of being known, and a step toward healing as you continue to connect, nurture, and grow through life's transitions.