From the very moment my parents discovered they would be having a baby girl, there was never a doubt that she would be named anything but Julia. With thousands and thousands of options one might think it would be difficult to choose—but not for them.

Julia first belonged to my great-grandmother, Wilma Julia Larson. People have told me I am a spitting image of her. At a family reunion three years ago there was a picture of Wilma and her brother on display. My eleven year old brother asked if the picture had been taken of us. But it had not.

The latin definition of Julia means full of youth. Its Roman origin is from the god Jupiter meaning, “the supreme god”. A soft blush rose mixed with lavender. Feels like the number 14. The eccentric colored Italian buildings that sat in a picture frame on my parents bedroom wall for as long as I can remember.

Imagine endless fields of imperfectly manicured wildflowers and a gentle breeze lifting and blowing petals of lavender and emerald in swirls. On one side lies the Canadian mountain range I once visited that touches the sky. Trees that tower above the blossoms. A feeling of soaring high on a trampoline with my friends during summer in my younger years. Almost like we could join the mountains up in the sky. I am the family daredevil afterall. Being suspended in the air. The wind whipping through our hair. That is Julia. 

I don't know if I could change my name if I was asked to. I think my parents decided perfectly. Even if I could choose anything else, I'm not sure I would be able to find many others that could qualify to be mine.