A Girl Named Lucy

For most of my life, I thought my name was something I needed to escape.

I wore it quietly as a child, then set it down as an adult, convinced it belonged to a version of me that was too fragile, too wounded, too exposed to survive in the world. I didn't know then that I wasn't running from my name- I was guarding it.

December 13th is the feast day of Saint Lucia—Saint Lucy. She is my namesake.

I was born two days after this saint day, and my mother wanted very much to name me Lucia (Lucy) because of it. The name itself means "light".

In our culture, namesake days were a very significant thing—almost more important than an actual birthday. If you were fortunate enough to be named after a saint, well, that was something very noble.

As my birth origin story goes, my parents were in a disagreement over what to name me, so they decided to hold off on putting one down on the birth certificate, until agreeing on a name—or until my mom could convince my dad to love the name Lucy as much as she did. That night, my mom remained in the hospital, while my dad had returned home to sleep.

During the night, my dad had a dream. He was in his bedroom watching over me. I was sound asleep in my crib, while he lay beside me. Suddenly, he said that he saw a woman in the doorway looking into the room. She stared at my dad in disapproval, as she entered the room, and walked over to the crib. She saw me laying there, peacefully asleep, and waved her arm over me. As she did that, I woke up and was inconsolable. The woman turned and walked away.

My dad called out to the woman, asking what she'd done to me. She stopped and turned to look at my father. "You didn't see fit that your daughter bare my name. It is not worthy enough for you? So be it. I have taken away the child's eyesight. Now, your daughter will spend the rest of her life blind, with no sight of the world." That said, the woman left the room and disappeared.

My father woke up from that dream and immediately contacted my mother. "The minute the nurse comes in to check on you, tell her that we have decided to name our baby girl Lucy, and be sure to put it on the birth certificate, right away. And so it was.

For most of my adult life, I ran from that name. I did everything I could to extract it from my identity. I tucked it away, I softened it, replaced, convinced myself it didn't fit the woman I had become.

I didn’t understand it. I didn’t feel worthy of it. If I’m being honest, I didn’t feel safe inside it.

When I was a child, I was Lucy.

Lucy was the one who suffered. Lucy was the one who endured things no child should ever endure. Lucy was the one who learned very early that the world could be cruel—especially to girls, especially at the hands of men. Lucy was the one who learned to go quiet, to disappear, to survive.

So when I grew older, I did what so many wounded souls do—I created someone stronger to carry her.

Her name was Gia.

Gia became my armor.

Gia became my voice.

Gia became the woman who could stand tall, speak boldly, create freely, and protect fiercely.

When Lucy was broken, Gia pulled her from the ashes, brushed her off, and stood between her and harm.

For a long time, I thought I had abandoned Lucy. But today—on Saint Lucia’s day—I realized something different. I realized I had been protecting her.

As the story goes, Saint Lucia was not remembered because she lived an easy life.

She was remembered because she chose faith, purity of spirit, and devotion to God in a world that tried to claim ownership over her body and her will.

She was betrayed by a man she was betrothed to. She was punished for giving her dowry to the poor, instead of marrying him. In fury, the man reported her to the authorities and she was ordered to be thrown into a brothel, where her virtue would be taken and her body, abused by all men. She was condemned for choosing God over expectation.

And yet—she remained untouched. Protected, preserved, and held virtuous by God, in spite of the evil this man tried to bestow upon her out of jealousy.

He tried to dim her light, but God made her light shine even brighter.

As I prayed today and reflected on her story, the parallels rose up around me like truth I could no longer ignore.

I, too, have suffered deeply at the hands of men.

I, too, have carried wounds from childhood that shaped how I moved through the world.

I, too, learned early that survival sometimes requires silence, reinvention, and strength beyond your years.

And then it came to me—quiet and unmistakable.

It was no mistake that I was named Light.

God did not name me Lucy because of a date on a calendar.

He named me Lucy because He knew what the world would try to do to my light.

He named me Lucy because He knew I would need reminding.

He named me Lucy because He placed a gift inside me that could not be extinguished—only hidden for a time.

The world did not break Lucy.

The world tried to suffocate her.

And so I learned to carry my light under a different name.

I have always known that writing is my gift from God. Words are how I love.

Words are how I protect. Words are how I make people feel seen, safe, understood, and less alone.

Through my writing, I have always wanted to bring light—to dark places, to heavy hearts, to people who feel forgotten. All I've ever wanted to do was to help others with my words. To give them courage and freedom within them—especially for those who could not find or shape their own.

Today, at 51, nearly 52 years old, I finally understand:

That was the assignment all along. I was named Light because I was meant to give it.

Not loudly. Not arrogantly. But faithfully.

Gia was never a rejection of Lucy. Gia was Lucy’s guardian.

And Lucy was never weak —she was unprotected.

Now, the strength Gia built lives inside Lucy too.

I don’t have to choose one or the other.

I don’t have to explain myself to the world.

God sees the whole story. God IS the story.

He sees the child.

He sees the survivor.

He sees the writer.

He sees the woman who learned how to carry light through fire.

And He calls me—still—by name.

Lucy, Lucia, the light that he has given to the world. Not to be hidden, not to disappear—but to shine as brightly as all the stars in heaven. To light up the lives of all those who find comfort in my words.

He also calls me Gia. The Firestarter, the protector, the one who lights up the way, when Lucy is too afraid of the dark. She and she are intertwined, forever.

They. Are. Both. Light.

" You were born to blaze, to heal, to illuminate, even when the world tries to shadow you. Shine bright-forever." - Gia Laurent