I know how it sounds. Selfish. Absurd. Even cruel.
But when I looked at him one morning—grinning wide with those missing teeth and messy hair—I realized I didn’t see Eliot anymore. That name belonged to the version of me that was 22, terrified, and doing everything just to survive.
Back then, I gave him a name I thought sounded gentle. Safe. Non-threatening.
But now I’ve grown. I have a stable job. I bake on weekends. I volunteer at his school.
I didn’t want to keep introducing him like a scar from my past. I wanted a fresh start. For both of us.
So I started calling him “Rhett” one day.
He looked confused at first. I told him it was his “big boy” name.
And he blinked twice, chewed his cereal, and said, “Okay, Mom.”
It was that easy. Too easy, almost. Like he was used to me changing things on a dime. Like he’d already learned to adapt to my unpredictability without a fuss.
That broke me a little.
Because while I had told myself this was about growth and healing, the truth was more complicated. I was trying to erase a version of myself I was ashamed of. The girl who cried in grocery store aisles. Who fed her baby crackers because milk was too expensive that week. Who stayed with a man who only spoke to her in anger.
Eliot was born in chaos. In a hospital where the nurses looked at me like I was another statistic. The name came from a baby book I skimmed in the waiting room between contractions. It felt safe, like something a calm woman in a calm life might name her son.
But I wasn’t that woman then.
Now, though, things were different. I worked at a small marketing firm. I got promoted. I saved up for a car that didn’t make weird noises at red lights. We lived in a neighborhood where people recycled and waved from their driveways. I was—by all surface definitions—thriving.
Except every time someone asked, “What’s his name?” and I said “Eliot,” I felt my voice catch.
Not because the name was bad. Not at all.
But because it carried a weight I couldn’t shake.
It reminded me of the first three years when I slept maybe four hours a night, worked doubles, and missed everything that made life feel real.
So I renamed him.
Rhett.
It sounded sturdy. Confident. Like a name someone grew into with swagger and a sense of purpose.
I started small. Lunchbox notes. A new chore chart with “Rhett” scribbled in bright marker. When I told his teacher, she smiled politely and said, “That’s… an interesting choice.”
I said it was a family name. She didn’t ask more.
Some people hesitated. My sister, for one.
“You can’t just rename your kid like he’s a hamster,” she told me over the phone.
But she wasn’t there for the hard nights. The endless reinventions. The thousand tiny ways I’d had to change to become the kind of mother who knew what went in a lunchbox besides a juice box and guilt.
Rhett liked his new name. At least, that’s what I told myself.
Until one night—after I tucked him in and kissed his forehead—he whispered, “Will you still love me if I want to be Eliot again sometimes?”
My heart stopped.
I sat back on the edge of his bed, brushing his hair from his forehead. “Of course I will,” I said.
And then I stayed there for a while. Watching him drift off, his breath evening out. Wondering what part of him I’d tried to erase when I decided to rename him. And if it had really been about him at all.
Over the next few weeks, he switched between names depending on his mood. Rhett at school. Eliot when we watched cartoons. He used Eliot when he scraped his knee and wanted extra cuddles. Rhett when he asked to ride his bike “no hands” like the older kids.
I started to realize something.
He wasn’t confused.
He was adapting. Holding both parts of himself with grace I hadn’t expected from a six-year-old.
Meanwhile, I was the one who hadn’t made peace with the past. I’d tried to sever it instead of honoring it.
Things took a strange turn during a school event.
His class had a performance. Parents clapped and waved. I had my phone out, recording everything. When they announced the names for the closing bow, I braced myself.
“Eliot Greene,” the teacher said.
And he stepped forward confidently.
I waited for the sting of shame. But instead, I felt something else. Pride.
Not because he used the old name.
But because he stood tall, like both names belonged to him and he didn’t owe anyone an explanation.
That night, I asked him. “Why did you pick Eliot today?”
He shrugged. “Because Grandma was there. She calls me Eliot. And I like how she says it.”
It was so simple. So honest.
Kids don’t see identity like we do. They don’t get stuck in the past unless we drag them there.
I realized I’d been dragging him.
Trying to repaint our story with glossy new colors, when the old ones still mattered.
After that, I stopped pushing the new name.
I let him choose, day by day.
One day, he was Rhett the superhero.
The next, he was Eliot who liked blueberry pancakes and needed help with spelling.
And somewhere along the way, I stopped flinching when I said the name out loud.
There was a twist I didn’t see coming, though.
That winter, my ex came back.
He’d heard—through whatever grapevine toxic men keep alive—that I’d moved to a better place, literally and figuratively. And just like that, he wanted “visitation.”
I was hesitant.
He hadn’t seen Eliot since he was two. No birthday cards. No child support. Just silence.
I told him no.
But he took me to court.
During the mediation, he referred to him as “the kid.” Didn’t even know his grade. Called him “Eliot” like it was something he found on a dusty file.
And I sat there, stone-faced, while he told the judge he wanted “his rights.”
I wanted to scream that he’d forfeited those rights years ago.
That a name on a birth certificate doesn’t make you a parent.
But the judge asked if the child had expressed any interest in meeting his father.
I said no.
Because he hadn’t. Not once.
Still, they ruled for supervised visits.
Just three, to see how it went.
The first one, I stayed in the corner while Rhett—he insisted on being Rhett that day—sat at a table with crayons, silent.
His father tried small talk. “So… Rhett, huh? That your nickname or something?”
Rhett looked him in the eye and said, “That’s what I go by now.”
And then he went back to coloring.
I didn’t say anything. Just watched.
The man tried a few more visits, but he never connected. Didn’t know his cartoons. Got annoyed when Rhett wanted to talk about dinosaurs for twenty straight minutes.
Eventually, he stopped coming.
A quiet gift.
Rhett didn’t ask why.
But a week later, he pulled out an old drawing from his preschool folder. It said “Eliot and Mommy” with a stick figure and a heart.
He handed it to me. “You can keep this. In case you forget who we were.”
I smiled, my throat tight. “Thank you, baby.”
“Can I be Eliot again tomorrow?”
“Always,” I said.
And I meant it.
Because what I’d learned is that being a mom isn’t about perfect choices.
It’s about letting your kid change, grow, and even remind you who you are.
It’s about admitting when you tried too hard to fix something that wasn’t broken.
And allowing room for both the past and the future to sit at the same table.
In the end, Rhett stuck.
But not because I forced it.
He chose it, fully.
Sometimes when he introduces himself, he says, “I used to be Eliot. That was my name when I was small.”
There’s pride in his voice when he says it.
Not shame.
He knows his story.
And more importantly, he knows it’s his to tell.
I still keep that drawing in my wallet.
Sometimes I pull it out when I feel like I’m failing.
And it reminds me—
We’re all works in progress.
Names, choices, memories—they evolve.
But love?
Love stays steady.
Whether your name is Eliot or Rhett or something in between.
So no, I don’t regret it.
But I do understand it better now.
I wasn’t rebranding him.
I was trying to rewrite my pain.
And thanks to him, I learned that healing isn’t about editing the past.
It’s about honoring it—and moving forward with both hands open.
So if you’re a mom, a dad, or just a human who’s ever wanted a fresh start—let this be your reminder:
Growth isn’t about erasing who you were.
It’s about becoming someone new because of who you were.
If this story meant something to you, share it. Someone out there needs to hear it today.
And if you’ve ever tried to give yourself or your child a second chance—drop a like below. We see you.
