Around three years ago, I began the process of changing my name from Clinton Nixon to Clinton Dreisbach: that is, I took my wife’s last name. I did it six years after we were married, which made it a bit more unusual.

For years, I’d been considering it, but couldn’t quite figure out why. I knew I wanted to as a feminist in order to make a small, tiny attack on the traditional way of doing things, but there was something deeper.

Then I read this article by the musician Alina Simone on changing her name and then meeting someone else who’d done the same. It was deeply affecting and settled me in my decision. She describes how anonymity can free you from the shackles of your past and lets you become a new person.

This morning, I was listening to “Istanbul (not Constantinople)” by They Might Be Giants with my son in the car. He loves They Might Be Giants because he is a rad little guy. We were both singing along loudly and all of a sudden, I felt a big pull in my heart. The song reminded me of that article I’d forgotten and I looked it up as soon as I had a chance.

I’ve been thinking about this a lot lately. My name change hurt my extended family, which I wish it didn’t. I understand why: it’s easy to imagine that changing my family name is a rejection of my original family. It’s not, though. It’s a rejection of the life I had before, a life full of bad decisions, false starts, losses, and depression. It’s a rebirth.