I was given the name Grace. But I didn’t think I was a Grace. Despite living in the name for all of my life, it never seemed to fit me. Grace was just a word that I responded to, but I don’t feel like Grace. 

Grace is supposed to be a waterfall. She lives in a crisp summer day with a small smile on her face. She’s supposed to be gentle and soft. She’s classical music and regal dresses, expensive and sweet perfume, and a myriad of white and blue. Grace has utmost poise, gliding nimbly across the ground. She is a queen—kind and compassionate, slow to anger, yet a strong woman. Grace is the grand opening of a ballet—head held high, with a feminine yet firm disposition.

But I’m not.

My emotions run through me like long awaited hail, my thoughts and feelings acting more like a rampant tsunami. Unlike Grace, I will argue till the death, whether I’m right or wrong, whether about politics or gummy bears, I never yield. I’m forgotten etiquette. Stumbling on flat ground. Feet propped on the coffee table. 

The roar and chaos of a machine shop describes me better than a ballet. Instead of sweet floral perfume, my clothing is infused with metal shavings and oil. Instead of the flowing melodies from 16th century ballads, I hear 80s music and country songs. Instead of gentle hands and perfect hair, I have calloused fingers and a messy ponytail. I am not Grace.

That doesn’t mean I haven’t learned.

My parents named me after everything they wanted me to be. I was named after a street. A street where couples danced music-less dances. Where love and romance grew. Where aspirations and dreams flowered. They wanted a graceful dancer, a loving heart, a soft yet ambitious woman, someone polite and sweet yet firm in her beliefs.

 I’ve learned to be a dancer, being strong and firm on the inside but seeming sweet and delicate on the outside. I’ve learned all six sets of silverware, all of Beethoven’s masterpieces. I’ve learned to be independent and strong, but also to channel my roaring waters into a calm trickle. I’ve learned to be an east wind instead of a tornado warning, a graceful melody instead of a loud crash. I’ve learned to be Grace.

In the end, Grace and I aren’t that different. 

While we differ on the inside, her flowing stream compared to my raging river, her natural decorum to my learned etiquette, her gentle subservience to my stubborn leadership—our actions are one in the same. We volunteer at charities on weekends, indulge in the quiet peace of a ballad, and babysit the neighbors’ kids. We both speak with eloquence, creating gardens with an abundance of different flora with nothing but words. We’re quiet wit that stays hidden until needed. 

So deep inside,

 I am Grace.