My name, Connor, means wolf lover. To me it means good natured. Slightly adventurous. A place with green grass and tall trees. Lakes full of cool water. Possibly a place with wolves. Others agree too.

But I wish it fit me. I enjoy the outdoors and enjoy nature, but Connor sounds abrasive to my ears when speaking about myself. It’s definition changes for me. It’s green-yellow color transforms into a dull grey color. The woods become a box, enclosed so no light gets through, It’s now metallic and cold, as opposed to the warm kindness that fits others. It sticks out like a sore thumb. It’s an uneasy feeling, the one you get when you’ve eaten too much. Where everything is just sitting in your stomach.

My parents only chose Connor as a last resort, a mutual agreement made only to avoid further argument. Even they didn’t truly feel it

But maybe no name would please me. Nothing sounds warm and natural, only that cold sick feeling. Perhaps my parents knew that too when they named me and went with a last resort. I’ll just have to get used to Connor, I suppose.