Tori's my legal name. My niece and nephews, they all call me Aunt

Hear, O seeker of wisdom, the gentle yet profound words of Tori Amos: “Tori’s my legal name. My niece and nephews, they all call me Aunt Ellen, because I went by my middle name years ago, before I turned 18.” At first glance, these words seem a simple reflection on names and family, yet beneath them lies a teaching about identity, the passage of time, and the ways in which our many selves are carried forward by those who love us. A name is more than a mark upon parchment—it is the vessel of memory, a bridge between who we were and who we have become.

In the ancient days, it was said that to know a person’s true name was to know their soul. And yet, each soul wears many names in the journey of life. Some names are given at birth, bound by law and tradition. Others arise from affection, bestowed by family, friends, or destiny itself. Still others are chosen, taken on as the cloak of maturity, or as the banner of one’s art and calling. Thus, Tori speaks of her legal name, the name recognized by the world of courts and contracts, yet also of Ellen, the name remembered within the sacred circle of family, whispered by children who see not the performer, but the aunt, the loved one, the guardian of memory.

Behold in this a lesson of duality: the self that we show the world, and the self that is held by family. One is bound by law, the other by love. And yet both are true, for identity is not singular, but layered like the rings of a great tree. The bark seen by strangers is not false, yet the inner rings, hidden and known only to kin, tell the deeper story of growth and endurance. So too does Tori Amos carry Tori and Ellen within her, each name a chapter, each a truth, neither diminishing the other.

Consider the tale of Octavian, who became Augustus, the first emperor of Rome. To the Senate and the world, he was “Augustus,” exalted and mighty, crowned with divine honors. Yet in the quiet of his household, his wife Livia and his kin still spoke to him as Octavian, the man they had known in youth. His dual names carried dual identities: one to rule an empire, the other to remain tethered to those who saw him as mortal, flawed, and familiar. In this way, names remind us that greatness and intimacy walk side by side, and that our essence is never confined to a single mask.

What, then, is the wisdom to be drawn? It is this: do not fear the multiplicity of your names. Embrace them. For in life, you will be called by many—child, sibling, friend, lover, teacher, worker, dreamer, perhaps even hero. Each name is a mirror reflecting one facet of your being, and none alone can contain the whole. To deny one is to deny part of yourself; to accept all is to walk in harmony with your past and present selves.

Practical action lies before you: honor the names by which others have known you. Do not cast them aside in shame or pride, but hold them gently, for they are threads in the tapestry of your story. And likewise, when others entrust you with their many names, speak them with respect, knowing that each carries the weight of history, memory, and love. In your own life, ask not only “Who am I now?” but also, “Who have I been, and who still remembers me as such?”

So let it be remembered: a name is not a chain, but a song. It changes with time, yet each verse belongs to the same melody. To the world, you may be one thing; to your kin, another; to yourself, yet another still. But all are true, all are sacred. And like Tori Amos—both Tori and Ellen—you too are many, and in being many, you are whole.