A Name Given by the Tribe

You don’t name yourself, not really.
That’s not how nicknames work.

They arrive unexpectedly, quietly—like a stray dog that decides to follow you home.
You might not even notice it at first.
But the people around you do.
They see something, say something, and suddenly, there it is: a new name.
And if it sticks, it sticks.

For me, it was PJ.
Not flashy. Not ironic. Not the result of some wild story involving pyjamas or pranks.
Just two letters.
My initials.
The way I signed my name somewhere in my late teens, early twenties.

I never introduced myself that way.
Never claimed it.
But my friends did.
One said it, another repeated it, and before long it was mine.

There’s something warm about that.
Because the best nicknames aren’t chosen, they’re bestowed.
They’re little acts of welcome.
A way of saying, we see you, and we like you enough to rename you.

That’s what “PJ” felt like to me.
Like being seen—quirks and all—and folded into the group.

There’s a kind of magic in that.
Not the loud, dramatic kind, but the ordinary, everyday kind—
where people offer you a name, and in doing so,
they offer you a place.

Daily writing prompt

What’s the story behind your nickname?

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