Naming Her Kate

When I was pregnant with my daughter, long before I knew her eyes would shine with fire or that her voice would hold both conviction and tenderness, I knew one thing for sure: I wanted her name to mean something. I didn’t just want a pretty name. I wanted a name that declared who she was, and who I hoped she’d become.

I told her father, “Her name needs to be short and strong. That’s the energy I want to raise her with. I want her to grow up certain of herself. I want her to lead with heart but walk with fire. I want her to know she matters.”

He, in his ever-thoughtful way, wanted something classic. Timeless. A name with deep roots and enduring grace. We went back and forth, as first-time parents often do, hoping, dreaming, negotiating who this little soul would become.

And that’s how we landed on Katherine. A name steeped in elegance and history, stretching across cultures and centuries, belonging to queens and saints, poets and rebels. It means pure, but it carries weight, a kind of quiet power. A name you can grow into.

But we would call her Kate. That was my part of the compromise. Short. Bold. No frills. Just like I imagined her: strong-willed, grounded, full of love, and ready to take on the world.

What I didn’t fully realize, what no mother ever truly realizes, is what it means to raise someone who embodies everything you prayed for.

Because mothering Kate has been like standing in the wind and watching it turn into a storm. Beautiful. Fierce. Unstoppable. There were days I’d find myself in awe of her, wondering how I was supposed to parent someone who already seemed to know herself so well. She didn’t need to be shaped, she needed to be seen. Honored. Sometimes gently redirected. Sometimes just held, even when she pushed away.

And oh, she pushed.

We fought, intensely. From the time she could form an argument, she used it. She pushed every boundary, questioned every rule. She did not back down. She stood up to us, not in rebellion, but in conviction. Even as a child, she believed in fairness, in logic, in standing her ground. And when she felt something was wrong or unjust, she let you know. Loudly.

There were nights I went to bed emotionally wrung out, questioning whether I was getting anything right. There were slammed doors, teary standoffs, long silences followed by even longer talks. But even in the hardest moments, I never doubted the strength of her mind or the depth of her heart.

Kate is brilliant. Not just smart in the academic sense (though she is that, too), but sharp in ways that can’t be taught. She sees the world through a lens that others miss, like she’s tuned into a frequency the rest of us can’t quite hear. She notices what’s not being said. She reads people. She understands the undercurrents. And when she speaks, it’s often with a clarity that cuts through noise and gets right to the truth.

There’s a wisdom in her that’s far beyond her years. And a sensitivity, too, though she guards it well. She feels things deeply, even if she doesn’t always show it. She’s private with her pain but generous with her insight. She doesn’t seek comfort in the usual ways, and she doesn’t ask for help easily, but she shows up for others in ways that matter.

She is the daughter I dreamed of and the woman I never could have fully imagined. Strong, yes. Grounded, yes. But also wildly unique. Compassionate. Clever. Complicated in the best of ways.

Katherine. Kate.

Both names fit her. Both names are hers.

And I am still learning how to mother her, not because I don’t know who she is, but because who she is keeps unfolding into something even more extraordinary.