Imagine the scene. I am 13. I finally work up the nerve to call the boy I have a serious crush on. With my hands shaking and my heart pounding, I rehearse what I will say over and over until I am sure I won’t mess it up. Finally the moment arrives.
I dial.
I can still remember feeling the stain of shame burn my cheeks as the little brother of my crush yells up the stairs, “Regena Steamer Carpet Cleaner is on the phone!” All I could do was hang up. I never called him again. In fact, I’m pretty sure I never even looked at him again. This was just one of countless incidents that caused the painful sting of embarrassment. I began to cringe at the sound of my name. Eventually I preferred to be called Reg- a shortened smaller name without any association to vacuum cleaners. It seemed simpler, cooler, and most importantly not embarrassing. And so began a subconscious shift in hiding and denying the wholeness of who I am.
It wasn’t always like that. I remember first learning to write my name. How proud I was to hold the pencil and see the letters formed on the light brown paper with the red solid lines and the blue dotted ones. Like every child, my eyes widened and my ears perked up when my name was called-creatingfamiliarity and connection. It helped me form my identity as my own person with choice and therefore the power to move, do, respond, and act. I loved that my name felt unique, that it was spelled differently, that I was named after my great great grandmother. Even my middle name, which was then Louise, seemed exotic.
And then one day I learned to become self-conscious, responding to the judgment and reactions of others, believing the story of the popular and not my own whisperings. And it wasn’t just my name that was embarrassing, weird, spelled funny and old sounding, I allowed the rejection of my name to be a rejection of me- who I was- one I unknowingly and slowly took on. And like any pre-teen and teenager to ever navigate the waters of puberty, I just wanted to fit in. I didn’t want to be different and so I rejected the part of myself that kept me different. When I got married at the tender age of 22, I got rid of Louise. After all, I didn’t like it anyway. I thought it sounded ugly. And I cast it aside in the excruciating judgment in which I narrowly viewed myself.
Eventually, I began using my full name when I introduced myself because “Reg” didn’t sound very professional and by then I felt it was more important people take me seriously. And slowly the “cringe factor” faded.
Over the past six years in my own journey of reclaiming my essence I have begun to examine the ways in which I have hid, shunned, denied and contained myself. And yet with all this inner work, it never dawned on me that I had done that so fundamentally with my name. That I never embraced the beauty of my name. Because I hadn’t yet fully accepted and embraced the fullness of the beauty within me.
Years ago, while in living in England briefly, I recalled meeting the gardener- an older gentleman with kind light blue watery eyes and a cockney accent. I reached out my hand in courteous greeting and said my name to introduce myself. He took my hand, closed his eyes, breathed in, gave a little bow, and finally kissed my hand. He said the word, “Queen.” I was only 17 and back then it seemed insignificant if not awkward yet it has stayed with me all this time. In the moment, what he meant didn’t register because I wasn’t ready to claim the origin of my name nor could I accept that he was talking about me. That he could see who I was. And like most things, it began as a soft gentle nudge, a memory recalled and a series of synchronistic events that eventually became so plain I could no longer pretend Not to see it.
My name, 
Regena, means Queen.
It’s not just the title I didn’t accept, I’ve spent years denying my own impact, the power of all women, the birthright of those who came before me and those who will follow in my footsteps.
Each one of us is born a Queen and somewhere along the way we have forgotten.
It’s time to remember.
What part of your magnificence do you need to wake up to?
“A queen is wise. She has earned her serenity, not having had it bestowed on her but having passed her tests. She has suffered and grown more beautiful because of it. She has proved she can hold her kingdom together. She has become its vision. She cares deeply about something bigger than herself. She rules with authentic power. To be a queen is to be a serious player…The purpose of life as a woman is to ascend to the throne and rule with heart. When a woman rises up in glory, her energy is magnetic and her sense of possibility contagious.” – Marianne Williamson
I tear down the walls that keep me less than and separated from my own divine royalty. I step out into the sunlight and see my worth. I throw my arms wide open to receive.
I declare myself as Queen. I surrender to it. I claim it.
Join me.
Ever suffer the sting of embarrassment as a kid or teenager and realize now that it led to you hiding a part of yourself? Please share your thoughts, comment, ask a question or claim yourself as Queen! And please share!
