Some names are given at birth—chosen in hospitals, whispered in delivery rooms, penned on certificates by people who may or may not have any real idea who we are yet. Others are earned through fire, dirt, resilience, and reputation. Still others are worn like armor, or masks, or sometimes both, depending on the day.

The word nickname comes to us from the Middle English eke-name—literally, an “also-name.” Over time, the indefinite article an eke-name softened into a nickname, and the evolution stuck. We’ve used the concept for centuries, likely since before language was formalized. An alternate name. An auxiliary identifier. A title you didn’t choose, but accepted. Or perhaps became.

People sometimes wonder where nicknames came from—whether the idea originated with Native Americans or some specific culture. The truth is, the concept of secondary or symbolic names is as old as language itself. You’ll find it in every corner of the globe, in nearly every human society.

Among Native American cultures, names were not mere labels—they were living expressions of a person’s essence, often bestowed with great care and ceremony. A child might be named after a vision seen in a dream, a natural event surrounding their birth, or a characteristic that emerged early in life. But that name wasn’t necessarily permanent. As a person matured, their name might change—sometimes more than once—reflecting major life events, personal growth, or acts of courage. In some nations, such as the Lakota or Navajo, names were considered powerful, even sacred; they could offer protection, carry ancestral significance, or invoke the spiritual guidance of animals, elements, or ancestors. Some names were spoken only within families or among elders. Others were earned in battle or ceremony. The idea of an “also-name” was interwoven into their spiritual and communal identity, not as a casual nickname, but as a sacred echo of who someone truly was—or who they were becoming.

There’s a beautiful humanity in that. A recognition that identity isn’t fixed, but fluid. That names carry the weight of evolution.

In my own life, I’ve lived through names like lifetimes. When I was a young girl, my friends called me Dark Horse. I was reckless, untamable—always the one who could be counted out until it mattered most. I didn’t live with moderation. I burned hot, fast, and fully, even when the road ahead was uncertain. I wrote myself a beacon, so I would know the way, and despite the odds and challenges placed in my life path. When everything fell apart, I was the one people called upon to help. There was a kind of groundedness under the chaos, like a secret spine running through the madness. A queer, fun-loving, laid-back all-American girl who preferred to be alone, or simply in the company of a single trusted friend, who showed up without question whenever she was called upon.

At work, my nickname became Lieutenant—not because someone thought it sounded impressive, but because I’d fought, bled, and earned it through decades of relentless dedication, command presence, and hard-won credibility. It wasn’t handed to me with a promotion or stitched onto a uniform patch—it was spoken with a kind of unspoken reverence by those who knew what it meant to follow me into hell and back. Still, I never let it follow me off-scene. The moment the radios went quiet and the gear was stowed, I insisted people drop the formality. Not out of false humility, but because titles mean nothing in quiet rooms and empty hallways. Leadership isn’t a name—it’s how you show up when things go sideways, how you steady the chaos without making it about you. Lieutenant was never a performance. It was who I became when there was no room for error, and lives were quite literally on the line.

As an adult, my friends call me Rescue Girl. It began with the job, but it became a philosophy. I was a career Firefighter, a Paramedic, and a rescue specialist routinely placed in situations that would make most people freeze. It wasn’t about heroism—it was about intention. Precision. Knowing exactly what needed to be done, and doing it, even when it felt impossible. I lived by certain rules: show up, keep your head, fix the unfixable. I didn’t pick that name, but I carried it like a badge of honor; I still do, even though I’ve long since retired.

And then there’s Emily—the name I’ve been called my entire life, even when my legal documents stubbornly insisted otherwise. Or Em, for those who know me well. It was never about what the paperwork said. It was about truth. Identity, as far as I am concerned, is not a bureaucratic designation. It’s not a driver’s license, or a birth certificate. It’s a bone-deep knowing. A voice in your own chest. I knew who I was before the world gave me permission. I still do.

We all have names we’re given, and names we grow into. Some fall away with time. Some stick to the skin and become part of who we are. Some are whispered in love. Some are shouted across firegrounds, natural disasters, or trauma bays. But the real ones—the true nicknames—are earned. Not because someone decided them for us, but because we lived them into being.

So no, nicknames didn’t originate with any one people. Not with the Native Americans, though their naming customs held profound spiritual meaning that deserves its own chapter in our collective story. Not with the Greeks, or the Romans, or the early Anglo-Saxons. Nicknames are universal, human, and subtle reminder to those of us who have truly lived like to the definition of fullest, that we are never just one thing.

We are what we answer to. What we survive. What we become. Call me Emily, or Em. Or Rescue Girl, or Dark Horse, if you remember. But always remember—whatever name you use to refer to me—I’ve already lived it.

“Leadership is not about titles, positions, or flowcharts. It is about one life influencing another.”— John C. Maxwell​