I took my husband’s last name. Then I regretted it

For as long as I can remember, I have dreamed of my wedding day. The obsession began when I was about 4 years old and hosting monthly wedding ceremonies between two lovestruck Barbie dolls: Derek Jeter and Courtney, a friend of Barbie’s younger sister, Skipper. I lay down in the middle of my parents’ carpeted living room and cheered when Derek Jeter was able, once again, to kiss his blushing fiancée.

So when it came time to plan my own wedding, I said to myself, “been there, done that.” I found the dress, the venue, the group, the pastry chef and above all, the groom.

I met my current husband, Evan, while in college, and had a strong feeling early on that he would be the man I would marry. Maybe not in the middle of my parents’ carpeted living room, but I’m sure they would vacuum it if I asked nicely.

The only thing I wasn’t sure about was whether or not I would accept my husband’s last name. My parents told me to do whatever made me happy, but I knew they secretly wanted me to keep my maiden name. Evan told me to do whatever made me happy, but I knew he secretly wanted me to take his name.

As a journalist, my maiden name had been widely shared on the Internet and I was convinced that I didn’t want to confuse my dozens of adoring readers by changing it after I got married.

I asked other friends in heteronormative relationships what they were considering doing. Their choices were mixed, with some happily changing their last name on social media within minutes of saying “I do,” while others confidently kept their maiden name. I haven’t heard anyone say that, like me, they weren’t sure.

Yes, changing your name seemed patriarchal and old-fashioned to me. But keep my maiden name forever? I thought only hippies did that. I share a middle name with my mother, so I didn’t want to erase it with my maiden name instead. Somewhere along the way, I decided to compromise. I would retain my maiden name professionally but change my last name on all legal documents. Win-win, right?

I ripped off the bandage and rushed to the nearest social security office with my passport and marriage certificate in hand. I was immediately told that I would have to go to a much further away and much busier office to change my name. Without thinking, I traveled 40 minutes to this office, sat and waited. For two hours, my thoughts raced like a lottery machine: “What are you doing here? This is a mistake. Then: “Suck it up.” All women experience this. You can too.

Two weeks later, my new Social Security card arrived in the mail. I thought I would feel relief, even excitement. But on the contrary, seeing my new name made me sad. I stuffed the card in the bottom of a file box until a week later when I had to retrieve it for my DMV appointment. When they told me they had to take back my old license, I kindly asked if I could keep it. Not for anything illegal, just as a souvenir. They refused and I cried all the way home.

It felt like pieces of me were being torn apart in industrial-strength government crushers. I realized I wasn’t doing this for myself or my husband, I was just doing what I thought I should do. I proceeded to update my name everywhere it mattered and everywhere it didn’t – with banks and credit card companies and my Dairy Queen rewards app.

I just have to get used to it, I told myself. Exposure therapy and all.

But even two years later, I never got used to it and the so-called compromise never really worked. One day at work, Kelly Vaughan was reprimanded for not completing her HR compliance training on time, even though Kelly Turiano had. When I would check into restaurants and be asked what name I had booked under, I would pause and babble through multiple possibilities – my old name? my new name? my husband’s name? – before locating my reservation.

“You can always change it,” my husband said.

“And sit in a cold, concrete government building for hours and spend hundreds of dollars to get back to who I always was? Pass.”

Here’s the problem: I never changed my passport. (Don’t tell Antony Blinken). I threw excuses like a baseball: It’s expensive; I don’t have a good photo; I won’t be leaving the country anytime soon; it’s raining outside. But the truth was I wanted to hold on to it, Meas long as I could. There was something about not changing it that made the legal change less permanent, like leaving a door ajar for some air.

While planning a trip to Ireland, I learned that as long as the name on your plane ticket and the name on your passport match, it doesn’t matter who is taken from you by the Social Security Administration. I joked with my husband that he was traveling with an impostor.

“Shh,” he said as we approached the customs counter.

I clutched my chest as the agent scanned my passport, afraid of being flagged as a fraudster. But a green check mark filled the screen and I screamed. What other crimes could I commit now? The possibilities seemed endless!

But when the same fear crept into my veins six weeks later, during a trip to Aruba, I realized this was no way to live.

I told Evan I wanted to change my name permanently. If he was disappointed, he didn’t show it.

“I don’t want to make a big deal out of it,” I insisted.

Unfortunately I’m changing my name Again – even going back to your maiden name – East a big deal. Without a divorce decree (no, thanks), I would need to get a court order.

I’ll spare you the details, but four visits to civil court, a metal detector alarm (thanks, Birkenstocks) and $83 later, my request had been granted – ironically, on our second wedding anniversary.

I felt a blink of relief followed by another daunting list of things to do: back to the Social Security office, back to the DMV, back to the banks, the credit card companies, and Dairy Queen.

When I went to the DMV, I told the clerk that I needed to update my last name.

“Marriage?” » She asked, looking at my rings.

“Well, sort of,” I said.

“Do you have the marriage certificate?” »

I nodded.

“Okay, then this will be easy.”

I assured him that would not be the case.

But when my license was printed with my new (old) name, I smiled. I was back.

This article was originally published on TODAY.com