Why can’t I decide whether to change my name?

It’s quite the first world problem. Should I change my name when I get married?

The wedding’s a year away and it’s amazing how many people have already asked me this very personal question.

I’ve spent too much time worrying about whether I should or shouldn’t, whether I want to or don’t, to still be completely clueless about what to do.

There have been plenty of column inches dedicated to this subject, which is hardly surprising. Journalists are probably more attached to their names than the average, spending the first half of their careers desperately trying to get that byline to stick.

I am torn. By the time I marry I will have been me for 30 years, why would I give myself a new name? Why would I erase the me I’ve been for three decades?

But clearly there is a part of me that wants to, or I wouldn’t be obsessing over this. It would be an easy answer: No. But it’s not an easy answer for me. And in fact, I haven’t got an answer.

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No way

It’s time to change the culture. I’ve been addressed as my partner’s name-to-be by friends for whom it seems so natural it’s not even a question. And I’m not down with that. There is a question. It does not go without saying that I will just be absorbed into my husband’s family name.

I don’t want to cease to be. If I change my name, the me of the last 30 years disappears. The bylines won’t lead anywhere, the memories that acquaintances, friends, teachers and family have of me will be of a person who’s no longer there. Haven’t you ever been shocked to see how few of your female Facebook friends’ names you still recognise?

Plus I’m a feminist. I believe in equality. One person being expected to change their name doesn’t feel particularly equal. The fact that it’s the woman feels prescriptive.

Oh, and I also have a brand new passport, which won’t run out until nine years after I’m married. And it costs a small fortune for amendments.

Saying yes

Despite being a double-barreller (Hookem-Smith), I’m not a fan of double-barrelled names. They’re just… long. Mine came out of necessity and isn’t in fact my legal name. Forget the fancy Hookem, I’m really just a Smith.

I picked up Hookem, my mum’s maiden name, after discovering when I got a new job that there were already two people who shared my name in the company, one within the same team.

On the one hand you could argue I can’t change my name twice - far too confusing. On the other, as I’ve already become someone else once before, for no better reason than work, why not do it again for marriage – infinitely more important.

But forget about it being kinda nice to have the same name as my partner, the main reason I’m still considering doing it is this: REINVENTION. How cool would it be to suddenly be called something else?

Former Red editor Sam Baker described reinvention as a ‘singularly 21st-century fantasy’ when she wrote about quitting her job.

I’m not going to lie; the idea of reinventing myself is powerful and appealing. I have been a Smith all my life. How boring.

If I take Adam’s name (Easton), I suddenly shoot up to the front of the alphabet (handy when I finally publish that novel and it sits on the first half of the fiction shelves).

And I get a name with some history. I’ve met Adam’s grandparents; I know some of their family history. Whereas my own Smith grandparents died when I was a baby and my dad’s lack of interest in his family tree, combined with the fact that there are no remaining members of our particular Smith clan in the UK, mean I don’t feel a closeness to the name or the history.

My brother will continue the dull family name anyway.

So ditch the Smith, right? Do what everyone’s expecting of you anyway.

But I hate to do what everyone expects. And I hate that this is what is still expected.

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The pressure

I’m not altogether against the idea of one of us changing our name, but does it have to be me?

It’s high time it was culturally normal for the man to be as likely to change his name as the woman. Each couple would look at their family trees, history, siblings and think about how they each feel about their name before choosing whose to go with, or combining.

In our case, Easton would win over Smith in all of these areas so by practising what I preach, I'm not exactly making a statement.

Frankly I can see this decision being made by indecision. I don’t know what to do so I won’t do anything. So I’ll remain Smith, my passport will go unchanged, everything will be the same, and I’ll have missed my chance to become someone else.

But I feel I’m under a weight of pressure. It’s a little like the stay-at-home-mum vs working mum arguments. Everyone seems to fall on one side, and strongly at that.

Victoria Coren, now Coren Mitchell, wrote of her decision in the Observer: “I had an instinct to take my husband's name when I got married. It felt like a romantic statement of pride, love and permanence, and of doing what's always been done in my family.

“But I was scared that it might be mistaken for a blow against feminism. Scared that it might be a blow against feminism, or at least disrespectful of it.”

She concludes: “Maybe I just think I'm enjoying the freedom to choose my own name, when I'm actually brainwashed by an antiquated patriarchal idea from which others have rightly sprung away.”

I feel the same way. I’m under pressure, be it real or perceived, to keep my name to make a statement, yet ultimately expected to lose it.

Advice gratefully received.