I’ve always believed that the names we carry are more than just words spoken out loud—they are soft containers of memory. Markers of time. Vessels for all the lives we’ve lived, and the selves we’ve become when no one else was watching. And if you’ve ever been called by a nickname that only exists in one room, by one person, or during one very specific season of your life—you know what I mean.

At home, I am Lhang2x.
Spelled with a double “gigil,” spoken with affection only family can offer. It’s a name that’s rarely written, but always felt. That nickname isn’t used in formalities or introductions; it belongs to warmth, to barefoot afternoons, to being scolded gently when I forget to eat, to laughter spilling out in the kitchen while chopping onions or reheating rice. When someone calls me Lhang2x, I am immediately transported—not just to a place, but to a version of myself untouched by the world’s expectations. It’s the name of my childhood. Of my first home. Of a girl who hadn’t yet learned to carry the world on her shoulders.

Then, as I stepped into the world and started building friendships—deep, sustaining ones—I became Anj or Angela.

This is the name that grew up with me. The one that traveled through school hallways and hospital corridors, across coffee shop conversations and teary late-night messages. “Anj” is the self I became outside the safety of home—softer, still, but more curious. She’s the one who learned how to listen, how to say sorry, how to walk away when needed. “Angela” comes out during serious conversations, during introductions, or when I’m asked to write down my full name on forms and dreams alike. She’s the version of me who carries weight with grace, who shows up when it matters, who holds everyone else together even when she herself is unraveling.

At work, I’m known as Gabby.
It’s quick. Professional. Easy to remember. A shortened version of my surname that fits neatly on shift rosters, whiteboards, and patient handovers. “Gabby” doesn’t flinch in emergencies. She documents, decides, responds. She’s calm even when the world around her isn’t. And yet, no one at work knows that this name is only one branch of a much deeper tree. They call me Gabby because it’s efficient. Because it suits the uniform. Because it makes things run smoothly. And yet I carry that name with pride. Because even behind the efficiency, there’s heart. And even behind the clinical mask, there’s a story.

But there’s one name I chose for myself: AJ.
It’s not a childhood nickname. It’s not tied to any profession. It’s not a label someone else gave me.
A for Angela. J for Jan.
A name forged in love.

It began as something quiet—just between us. A sweet combination of initials, a shorthand for “us” in messages and memories. But when I began writing and sharing parts of myself more publicly—when I needed a name to hold both who I was and who I was becoming—I knew it could only be AJ.

To the world, it might sound like a pen name. But to me, it’s a sacred signature. A quiet tribute to a love that stayed through distance, time zones, and long video calls. A reminder that I am not walking through this life alone. That behind every word I write is not just a woman with stories, but a woman who is deeply loved. AJ is my voice when I write. It’s the self I offer to strangers who become readers. It’s the name I’ve placed on book covers, blog posts, and open letters to the world.

And yet, all these names are me.

I am Lhang2x—the daughter, the child, the softness of home.
I am Anj—the friend, the listener, the one who laughs loudly and cries quietly.
I am Gabby—the nurse, the professional, the one who makes decisions at 3 a.m. no one else wants to make.
And I am AJ—the storyteller, the soul, the author of my own becoming.

Each name lives in a different room of my life.
Some are whispered. Some are spoken aloud. Some are typed into hospital records or printed on books. But all of them are real. All of them are mine.

So when someone asks me, “What’s your nickname?”—I take a quiet breath.

Because I know they’re not just asking for a word.
They’re asking for a window.
And the answer depends on which window they’re looking through.