I Lived As Someone Else For Nearly 2 Decades. Here's What Made Me Reclaim My True Identity.

Kelly, Melissa, Rachel, Jennifer — oh, I longed to have one of these names as my own. I would’ve even settled for Grace or Esther, which were common Korean American names in the ’90s.

By the time I was in fifth grade, I was used to teachers calling me Kim, even though Kimberly wasn’t my name and Kim was my last name. Many stopped asking how to pronounce my real name, Kyunghee, and shamelessly asked if I had a nickname they could use or just assigned me one without asking if it was OK.

I wish I could go back and give the young Kyunghee a big, warm hug for how much she endured. I now understand why I stayed quiet and let people treat me the way they did. Most kids, whether they’re from Korea or America or anywhere else, just want to be accepted — even if that means not speaking up about something as important as their name.

While my teachers and classmates were calling me whatever was easiest for them, I was busy practicing and trying to remember their names. The only times I heard my real name being used were at home and at church. What was once a name I loved because it was given to me by my grandfather soon became a symbol of shame and otherness.

When I got to high school, some friends called me Kyung, which seemed to be a step in the right direction, so I accepted it. Still, I felt trapped between two worlds and two people — Kim or Kyung at school, and Kyunghee at home and at church. I found every bit of myself in a constant tug of war, and on any given day I wondered which part would win — the Korean in me, or the American in me? Because I was constantly grappling with the question of “who should I be?” there was never a chance to consider “who do I want to be?”

I went to Michigan State University for college and, for