Three Names. One Identity.
I didn’t expect a high school Venn diagram to help me understand who I am.
But here I am: a product of three overlapping circles.
One name for clarity.
One for spirit.
One for lineage.
And in the space where they meet, I’ve found myself.
Sam – The Minimalist Self
This name was given with simplicity in mind.
No suffix. No story. Just Sam.
It speaks to a modern ethos—clean, straightforward, secular.
A name that makes no demands. It gave me room to grow into myself, unburdened by tradition or expectation.
But growing up, I noticed how people waited for something more.
“Sam… what?” they’d ask. Expecting a longer version, an explanation, a suffix to complete the story.
I learned to smile and say, “Sorry—it’s just Sam.”
At first, I felt the need to apologize.
As if brevity meant something was missing.
As if simplicity couldn’t carry weight.
But over time, I realized something deeper:
Sam was teaching me the quiet power of being enough.
No additions. No adornments.
Just presence. Just personhood. Just me.
It was humbling to sit with that.
To stop performing complexity just to feel valid.
To stop assuming more was always better.
To understand that wholeness doesn’t need to be loud or long to be real.
Sam taught me that clarity isn’t emptiness—and simplicity can be its own quiet statement.
What it gave me:
– Presence
– Groundedness
– The freedom to be steady, uncomplicated, and quietly enough
Hubert – The Spiritual Self
This is the name I received at baptism.
Hubert—Old German in origin, meaning bright heart or illuminated mind.
At first, I treated it like a formality. But names given in faith often unfold their meaning over time.
In every school form or roll call, Hubert made me an outlier.
In a list of Karthiks, Kumars and Rajs, Hubert stood out like a misplaced bookmark.
Teachers paused. Peers blinked. Some laughed.
It didn’t fit the landscape, and that made me feel like I didn’t either.
But Hubert did something quietly subversive:
It held a space for the part of me shaped by an older, quieter faith.
It connected me to my Nazrani Christian heritage—one of the oldest expressions of Christianity, rooted in South India.
A tradition that’s contemplative, enduring, and often invisible unless you’re looking closely.
Hubert reminded me that belonging isn’t always about recognition—it’s about remembering where you’re rooted, even when no one else does.
And sometimes, even your name won’t let you forget who you really are.
What it gave me:
– A way to live brightly without being loud
– A call to stay kind while holding hard truths
– A reminder that clarity is better than certainty
Sukumar – The Ancestral Self
This name ties me to my Tamil Brahmin lineage.
A name that means soft, gentle, tender—qualities I once questioned in a world that often rewards hardness.
I didn’t choose to use Sukumar—not at first.
It was simply the norm.
In school forms and official documents, I took my father’s name as my initial.
Just an S. A small letter, inserted by convention.
But over time, that single letter became something more.
It began to feel like a return.
To family. To language. To a rhythm older than my own life.
What started as a system became a signal—a quiet tether to a deeper inheritance.
In Sukumar, I found not only my father’s strength, but also his softness—the same softness I used to hide from.
And now, I’ve given Sukumar as my children’s last name.
So that they, too, can choose to remember.
So the name that rooted me can one day root them—if they want it to.
What it gave me:
– A rootedness in values that run deeper than survival
– The strength to be tender in a world that forgets how
– A connection to tradition without being trapped by it
The Quiet Cost of Forgetting
For a while, I thought I could treat these names like compartments.
Sam for the world. Hubert for faith. Sukumar for family.
Neatly filed. Conveniently separate.
But the more I lived, the more I felt something tugging beneath the surface:
If I don’t understand where I come from, I might leave behind nothing worth passing on.
Forgetting isn’t always dramatic.
Sometimes, it’s quiet. Gradual.
A slow erosion of meaning across generations.
I’ve seen what happens when names lose their roots.
When language is lost. When rituals are trimmed for convenience.
When we choose to simplify rather than remember.
It’s not just about culture. It’s about connection.
When we forget the story behind a name,
we risk forgetting the people who carried it before us—
and we risk leaving those who come after us without a thread to follow.
So now, I carry these names not just for myself.
I carry them so they don’t disappear.
So the light, the gentleness, the quiet strength—they don’t get lost in the noise of a louder world.
The Overlap: The Space Where I Live
Each name shaped me.
Each belonged to a different ethos, a different legacy.
And for a long time, I tried to keep them in their own lanes.
But then I remembered my high school Venn diagrams.
And suddenly, it all made sense.
Sam. Hubert. Sukumar. Three circles.
And where they overlap? That’s me.
A quiet yes. A bright heart. A tender root.
Not a performance. Not a conflict.
Just a life lived at the intersection.
I didn’t choose these names.
But I’ve chosen how to carry them.
And in doing so, I’ve become them.