Having Your Name Pronounced Correctly Matters
Personal Perspective: Your name is more than a label. It’s part of who you are.
Posted February 13, 2025 | Reviewed by Gary Drevitch
When I was five, I hated my name. I couldn’t understand why my mom gave me such a long, complicated name when all the kids around me had short, cute Russian names. In Kazakhstan, where I grew up, Russian names were everywhere. After all, Kazakhstan had been part of the Soviet Union, and most of the kids at my daycare were Russian. So, there I was, the only one in my kindergarten with a name like Aigerim ( ai -g-eh-r-ih-m). It felt like I was the odd one out.
Naturally, I decided I needed a new name. I wanted to be Katya —Ekaterina, if we’re being formal. Why Katya? Because I knew a girl with that name who had these amazing lashes that everyone noticed. I was convinced that if I had her name, maybe I’d get her eyelashes too. Spoiler alert: My mom wasn’t going for it. No name change. AIGERIM it was.
Fast forward to 2015. I’m in the U.S., thinking that moving across the world would leave all the struggles with my name behind. New country, new start, right? Wrong.
I sat in my first class at the University of Miami, surrounded by 50 strangers. The professor asked my name, and I said, 'Aigerim.' He tried a few times, stumbled, and then joked, 'Imagine having a name like that in a history book,' and the class laughed.
Was it funny? Not to me. In that moment, it wasn’t just my name being mispronounced; it was my whole identity being brushed off, like it didn’t matter. It wasn’t just a harmless slip of the tongue. This was a microaggression. Microaggressions are those small, subtle moments where we’re made to feel like we don’t belong, like we’re different in a way that’s not to be celebrated but mocked. Over time, those little moments build up, eroding your sense of self-worth . It wasn’t just about my name. It was about how I was constantly navigating between two cultures—needing to fit into a new world while still holding onto the old one.
And yet, I stayed quiet. I didn’t want to make anyone feel uncomfortable. I just told myself, 'It’s not a big deal.' But deep down, it stung. It made me question whether my heritage, my culture, and my name were things to be proud of—or things I needed to hide.
Over the next few years, I gave in. I started going by 'Age' or 'Aya.' Easier, simpler, more American. But every time I introduced myself with a shortened name, I felt a little piece of myself slip away.
Then one day, at a swing dance class, I met a Russian woman who asked about my name. 'Why don’t you just say Aigerim?' she asked. ' Ai-grim , like ice cream —it’s not that hard!' And just like that, something clicked. It was as if she gave me permission to be fully myself. I didn’t need to hide behind a nickname to make others comfortable. I could own my name—my identity—without shame . And from that day on, I started introducing myself as Aigerim, with pride.
But there’s more. My last name, Alpysbekova , also comes with its own baggage. It’s a mouthful, sure, but it’s part of my story. It’s from my great-great-grandfather, whose name in Kazakh means 'sixty-five' because his father had him when he was 65. It’s a quirky, fascinating piece of my family history—and it’s mine to share, not to hide.
Living in the U.S. made me realize how much I had been internalizing pressures to fit in, to make my identity 'easier' for others to accept. Acculturation isn’t just about learning a new language or adapting to new food; it’s about constantly balancing between your old world and your new one. You end up reshaping parts of yourself to be more 'acceptable' or 'digestible.' But there’s beauty in authenticity .
At times, I wondered if I’d ever feel like I truly belonged. The immigrant experience is layered with these small, almost invisible wounds: the microaggressions , the unintentional slights, the feeling of being 'other.' It’s the hurtful comment in class, the constant mispronunciations, the small but powerful reminders that you’re not quite like everyone else. But with time, I realized that these moments don’t define me.
They are part of my journey. They’re part of why I’m proud of who I am now.
To anyone who’s ever felt like their name, their heritage, or their culture was something to hide, I want to say this: Your story matters . Don’t let anyone make you feel as if your identity is anything less than important. Embrace your name, your roots, and your unique journey. You deserve to be seen for who you truly are.
Anyone else out there ever had to navigate the world between two cultures? What did it take for you to embrace your full identity? Let’s share our stories.
Share this post Facebook Bluesky Linkedin Email
There was a problem adding your email address. Please try again.
By submitting your information you agree to the Psychology Today Terms & Conditions and Privacy Policy
Aigerim Alpysbekova, MPH , is a researcher and advocate at the University of Texas at Austin, specializing in the psychological impacts of trauma on displaced populations.
Get the help you need from a therapist near you–a FREE service from Psychology Today.
This article is part of the Bringwise Psychology Journal — daily insights on human behavior, mental health, and personal growth.