Actually Asten

There was a time I couldn’t say my own name.

Not out loud. Not in writing. Not even in my head without a spike of panic. It wasn’t just “I don’t like it” — it was a full-blown phobia. Seeing it, hearing it, being it made me feel weirdly detached from myself. Like I was wearing someone else’s skin.

When I was a teenager, this name — Asten — felt too much. Too sharp, too visible. It didn’t feel like me… or maybe it did, and that was the scary part.

I don’t know how I got past it exactly. It wasn’t some magical “I’m cured!” moment. It was slow. Quiet. Somewhere between 16 and now, I made peace with the word. I stitched it into my writing, wore it across blog titles, and let characters like Amber and Daisy carry it with pride.

And now? Now it’s not just a name. It’s my signature. My stamp. My story.

If that phobia had never eased, I might never have become a writer. That sounds dramatic, but it’s true. How could I tell stories if I couldn’t even say who they came from?

But I did get through it. And I’m still here. Still writing. Still proudly, awkwardly, unapologetically… Asten.

Or, y’know… A, on the low-energy days 😅 (Because let’s be honest — even now, I like having a backup.)

🩷