Why I chose Lily

I couldn’t help but wonder… how much power could possibly be tucked into six little letters?

The stamp inside my passport doesn’t say Lily. It sings a beautifully accented Vietnamese name called Huong Ly Hoang instead, melodic, lyrical, and an instant trip hazard for anyone doesn't speak Vietnamese.

Years ago, during an AIESEC exchange, I watched new friends stumble over those tones like tourists in stilettos on cobblestones. So I did what any sensible girl would do: I smiled, introduced myself as Lily, and carried on.

At first, “Lily” was nothing more than shortcut. A neat alias for meetings and mixers, no more personal than sticker on my shirt. But then something odd happened. When I spoke English as Lily, I felt bolder. Lighter. More open-minded. As though this short, simple name wasn’t just a nickname, but a whole new persona giving me permission to take up space.

And names, like shoes, do break in. After 3 companies, a master’s degree, and countless Zoom calls, “Lily” has gone from being the easy handle colleagues stick on Slack to feeling, dare I admit it, like me.

But every time I type L i l y on a job application, there’s a quiet tug at my sleeve. Am I making life easier… or making myself smaller? Because let’s be honest: in the recruitment Hunger Games, a Western name is a handy cheat code. Bias may be labelled “unconscious,” but it’s hardly invisible. CVs with a Lily float through the algorithm like swans. CVs with all the right diacritics? They sometimes sink before they’re seen.

And I’ve seen this phenomenon first-hand in my own slightly twisted immigrant family. My uncle is now Brian in Sydney, my aunt reinvented herself as Hannah in Canada, and my cousin, born in Portugal, doesn’t even have a Vietnamese name. It’s as if our heritage got lost at baggage claim somewhere between check-in and customs.

Meanwhile, other communities have written a different script. Indians, Pakistanis, Nigerians they don’t turn into Paul or Paula for convenience. They keep their names intact, and the world adjusts. Maybe it’s strength in numbers, maybe it’s sheer confidence. Either way, their names now roll off British tongues as naturally as “John Smith.”

Which makes me think: if people can wrap their mouths around Tchaikovsky and cheerfully debate the fate of Daenerys Targaryen over brunch then surely they can learn to say Hương Ly. Difficult names aren’t the problem; lack of effort is. After all, no one broke up with Daenerys just because her name had too many syllables. (Her dragons, maybe, but not her name.)

Still, the world surprises me. A hiring manager pausing mid-interview to ask, “What’s your Vietnamese name? Will you teach me to say it?” A barista correcting my Starbucks cup with the precision of a spelling bee champion. Small things, yes, but each one a vote for the full, unabridged me.

So I toggle. At home, my real name unfurls like silk across the kitchen tiles. In global meetings, Lily steps forward in sensible heels, clutching the agenda. Two names, one heart. Some days it feels fluid, even powerful. Other days, it’s like picking a filter before I’ve even taken the photo.

And isn’t that what so many of us do? Anglicise a name, iron out an accent, shave a beard for “professionalism.” We bend and smooth ourselves to fit into rooms that were never quite built with us in mind. It’s clever. It’s exhausting. It’s life, for now.

Maybe one day Lily will hang up her heels. Or maybe she’ll linger on like a childhood nickname that still makes me smile.

But here’s what I’ve learnt after living two full years as “Lily”: a name doesn’t magically turn you into someone new. The boldness, the confidence, the curiosity, they were always there. Lily just opened the door and let them out for a walk.

And maybe that’s the thing about names. They’re not masks we put on, but mirrors we hold up, some sharper, some softer, some easier for the world to read. My Vietnamese name is the epic poem; Lily is the short story. One day, the world might finally learn to pronounce the poem without stumbling. Until then, I’m happy switching between editions.

Because at the end of the day, names are a bit like shoes. You can slip into stilettos or trainers depending on where you’re headed but either way, it’s still the same pair of feet carrying you forward.