Deadnaming—calling a transgender person by their pre-transition name—has sparked heated discussions across Western media and legislative halls. In some places, including Colorado, lawmakers are considering ways to ban the practice when it’s clearly intended to harass or discriminate. Many see deadnaming as an affront to trans people’s dignity, believing it undermines their identity and progress. However, a closer look at different cultures and personal stories reveals that not everyone views referencing an old name as purely harmful. Some transgender individuals—especially those with non-Western backgrounds—may see their pre-transition selves not as something to bury forever, but as a testament to the journey they survived. This article explores that alternate viewpoint, aiming to be compassionate toward those who find deadnaming painful while also acknowledging those who see value in folding their old names into their ongoing story.
The Colorado Legislative Debate
Recent debates in the Colorado capitol illustrate how emotionally charged this issue can be. A new bill, introduced by Democratic sponsor Rep. Lorena Garcia of Adams County, would categorize intentional and reckless deadnaming or misgendering as a form of discrimination under the Colorado Anti-Discrimination Act. Transgender community members had reportedly placed this high on their legislative wish list, emphasizing that repeated, deliberate misuse of a pre-transition name can be dehumanizing and traumatizing.
Critics, like Republican Rep. Matt Soper of Delta, worry about where to draw the line. Accidental slips might become potential legal liabilities unless the law clearly distinguishes innocent mistakes from deliberate harassment. The bill’s sponsors argue that the standard is high, requiring a plaintiff to demonstrate that an individual acted “intentionally recklessly.” For instance, if you habitually dismiss someone’s chosen name and keep using their old one even after multiple corrections, you may be open to legal action. But calling someone by the wrong name once, purely out of habit, would not necessarily rise to that standard.
The proposed legislation goes further. It aims to ensure parental custody cases can’t penalize parents who affirm a child’s gender identity, and it would ban school dress codes that single out one community. Supporters argue these changes clarify protections for trans youth. For them, misgendering and deadnaming represent only part of a broader push to secure comprehensive rights. Still, Colorado’s effort underscores the intensity of Western debates: in many people’s eyes, the old name is a painful relic, best exiled to the past.
Cultural Variations in Attitudes
Although Western nations increasingly view deadnaming as an actionable offense, other cultures don’t always frame it so starkly. Talking to trans women across Asia, for example, reveals a more nuanced relationship with pre-transition names. Some have never changed their names at all, citing family traditions or cultural norms about continuity and ancestry. Others may have changed their names but still refer to their old names under certain circumstances, often with a hint of nostalgia or respect for the person they once were.
This approach may be linked to collectivist ideals, in which personal identity is often interwoven with family and community. A name might carry connections to grandparents, clan traditions, or local customs. Changing it can feel like erasing part of one’s heritage. For many, acknowledging the old name—even occasionally—doesn’t negate who they are now; it simply honors the full arc of their life story. In that sense, certain trans individuals see their pre-transition name as a reminder of challenges overcome, as opposed to a cage they’ve escaped.
Hearing these perspectives can be jarring to someone steeped in Western discourse, where deadnaming often features as a prime example of transphobia. Yet these global stories highlight one underlying truth: the trans experience isn’t monolithic. While some feel traumatized whenever they hear their old name, others can accept, or even embrace, that piece of their background. This doesn’t mean that malicious deadnaming is acceptable anywhere—but it does suggest that context, culture, and personal feelings matter a great deal.
Why This Stance May Be Controversial
It’s no secret that suggesting we “reconsider” deadnaming will provoke strong reactions. Trans communities often battle daily microaggressions—everything from casual misgendering in the workplace to family members stubbornly clinging to old pronouns. In this climate, telling people to “embrace your old identity” can sound dismissive of the pain that old identity might represent. Indeed, many trans individuals associate their old name with profound dysphoria, family rejection, or reminders of a body they never felt at home in.
Critics might say that acknowledging an old name, in any positive light, risks undermining the effort to ensure unwavering respect for a trans person’s chosen identity. If even one trans individual states, “I’m okay with referencing my old name,” could that potentially allow bigots to misuse this concession? Potentially, yes—context is everything. The boundary between self-acceptance and others’ disrespect exists. A trans person choosing to speak about their old name with fondness is one thing. Refusing to honor someone’s new identity by strangers, coworkers, or relatives is an entirely different matter.
The conversation becomes complex. We must grapple with two distinct goals: affirming the right of every trans person to be called by their chosen name and acknowledging that some trans people value their past and don’t want to burn it to ashes. Reconciling these positions requires empathy and a willingness to recognize individual variations.
The Role of Trauma and Self-Protection
The Western push to outlaw intentional deadnaming stems from empathy for the trauma many trans individuals have faced. Repeatedly hearing the name you’ve long rejected can feel like a slap. It conjures memories of isolation, bullying, or even danger. People often transition only after navigating immense social and internal resistance. Once they choose a new name, it symbolizes rebirth and authenticity—shedding that painful narrative of being stuck in the wrong body or dealing with parents who couldn’t accept them.
In such cases, hearing the old name can reignite fear. It might usher in an avalanche of negative emotions, perhaps even tapping into mental health struggles like depression or PTSD. By curtailing deadnaming through legislation, supporters believe the law can protect trans people from needless retraumatization.
However, not every trans journey centers on wanting to erase the past entirely. Some trans individuals describe their pre-transition selves as protective guardians who helped them survive until they could fully live as who they are. For them, the old name is part of a personal mythology—a chapter that shows their resilience. Overcoming adversity can foster pride; hearing the old name might be bittersweet, but not always unacceptable. So while the push for legal protections remains crucial, it’s equally important to leave room for individuals who embrace, rather than demonize, their past.
Context, Intent, and Genuine Accidents
Supporters of anti-deadnaming legislation frequently note that it targets intentional misuse. Misgendering or deadnaming might happen by accident; a friend who hasn’t seen you in years might slip. In those moments, we can correct them, explaining we no longer use that name. If the mistake is innocent, they’ll likely apologize and move on. But if that friend insists on using the old name—“That’s who you really are to me”—it becomes an aggression.
The difference lies in whether the speaker is open to correction. Some people, especially older relatives, may struggle at first but genuinely try to use the correct name and pronouns. That’s understandable. Others, though, will keep deadnaming someone out of stubbornness or religious or political beliefs. They may claim they have a “right” to do so, ignoring the harm inflicted. Such scenarios validate the need for recourse, as the repeated disregard for a trans person’s identity can be debilitating, especially in workplaces or schools.
But laws are blunt instruments; they punish malicious behavior yet can’t account for every nuance. A new coworker could stumble on an old record or social media handle, innocently referencing the old name once. Should that spark a lawsuit? Likely not, since the law requires showing intentional harassment. This distinction between malice and honest error matters greatly because, in the swirl of debate, some people fear that even one slip could land them in hot water.
Embracing Our Past Selves: An Alternate View
While many trans individuals wish never to hear their old name again, others hold a different perspective: the belief that their old name represents the person who shielded them from harm when they were not ready to come out. Rather than demonizing this prior identity, they might talk about it with gratitude. They could say, “I survived those years thanks to that version of me. They handled the struggle until I was strong enough to transition.”
In some cultures, it’s even normal to keep that name, especially if it’s deeply tied to family tradition. A woman who transitions might think of her old name almost like a childhood nickname—something that belongs to her history. She might even speak about it casually among close friends. “That was who I was at twelve,” she might say, “and she was scrappy enough to get me here.”
This stance requires context. It isn’t the same as ignoring someone’s transition or stubbornly clinging to an unwanted name. Instead, it’s a form of self-love: refusing to hate a past self who often faced intense hardship. By folding that old name into one’s life story, individuals can break the taboo around the idea that who they were “died.” They validate that they have been the same person all along, evolving toward authenticity. The key is that they, the transgender individual, must initiate or allow such references. It is their name, after all, and their choice whether it remains off-limits or occasionally open for reflection.
Family and Community Dynamics
Legislative conversations, particularly in the West, sometimes oversimplify what happens in family circles. Relatives who use the old name might be doing so from ingrained habit; years of calling someone “Michael” don’t vanish overnight. If a relative keeps forgetting but truly wants to adapt, the path forward often involves a series of gentle corrections and forgiveness for occasional slips. Over time, parents, grandparents, or siblings can learn new pronouns and names if they genuinely respect their trans loved one.
Problems escalate when family members refuse to acknowledge the change. Perhaps they keep arguing, “God made you this way,” or declare the old name “the only real name.” That’s not a slip; it’s an open challenge to a person’s identity. In many cases, these confrontations lead trans individuals to distance themselves to preserve mental health.
In places outside the West, families might handle it differently. A Malaysian trans woman might note that her grandmother uses her old name alongside affectionate references to her as a child, but with no ill intent. If the trans woman is comfortable, that might not feel like a betrayal. Indeed, some families adapt partially, blending old references with new realities without perceiving it as an existential threat to identity. Cultural norms, generational differences, and personal comfort levels delicately dance together. Blanket rules about deadnaming sometimes fail to capture these subtleties.
Fear of Undermining Transition
One pressing concern is the idea that acknowledging an old name could undermine the transition itself. Transition is a monumental shift, not merely in appearance or pronouns, but in how one navigates life. After fighting for the right to exist openly, many trans people feel anxious that any acceptance of the old name might encourage others to use it maliciously. That worry is valid—society often takes advantage of gray areas to sow confusion and disrespect.
Yet the existence of trans individuals who accept referencing their old identity needn’t invalidate those who find deadnaming traumatic. No single experience sets the standard for everyone. Instead, it underscores a broader theme: trans people are as diverse in their emotional needs as any other population. If one person demands never to hear their old name again, that boundary must be honored. If another chooses to occasionally revisit that name, that’s their choice. Embracing nuance simply means granting each person authority over how their past is acknowledged.
Healing, Self-Love, and the Journey Forward
Ultimately, each trans person must find a path to embrace (or reject) their pre-transition self in a way that fosters healing. In many cases, acknowledging the old name can feel like shining a light on a locked closet of painful memories—an overwhelming experience that isn’t worth reopening. For others, naming that old self is akin to reuniting with a former ally, someone who lived through hardships to pave the way for today’s authenticity.
Self-love often emerges through therapy, supportive communities, and honest conversations with oneself. It involves accepting every chapter of your story, even the bleak or complicated parts. For some, burying the old name for good is a vital act of liberation. For others, letting it surface occasionally can be a testament to resilience. Either route can lead to empowerment, so long as it remains the individual’s choice.
This process also intersects with broader themes of mental health. Deadnaming can be a potent trigger, reviving feelings of dysphoria or trauma. Laws like the one in Colorado aim to mitigate that harm. Meanwhile, trans people who see value in their old names may not need those legal protections in the same way, but they benefit from living in a society that understands not to weaponize personal history. Peaceful reflection on a once-secret life shouldn’t be conflated with malicious denial of a person’s real identity.
The Power of Empathy and Respect
Given these complex layers, perhaps the most important ingredient is empathy. Rather than imposing a single blanket policy on how every trans person must feel about their old name, we can listen to each individual’s story. If someone says, “That name brings me too much pain; please don’t use it,” we respect that boundary unequivocally. If someone else says, “I look back at that name and see a tough kid who endured so much,” we honor that viewpoint.
Families, allies, and society at large can benefit from understanding the full range of trans experiences. The Western push to criminalize intentional deadnaming protects those who feel profound distress at hearing a name they’ve renounced. But it doesn’t (and shouldn’t) invalidate trans people who speak of their old name without revulsion. Legal safeguards matter, but so do personal narratives. Whether someone embraces or dreads their old name, the critical thread is autonomy—letting each person decide how their story is told.
Empathy also helps us avoid binary thinking. Not all situations are clear-cut. There’s a wide difference between bigots who repeatedly use the wrong name out of spite and a kind aunt who occasionally slips but corrects herself. Many families occupy that middle ground: fumbling at first but genuinely trying to do better. When we appreciate each scenario’s context, we foster dialogue rather than condemnation.
The Bottom Line
Deadnaming, especially when done repeatedly and maliciously, can be devastating for trans people who’ve fought hard to claim their true identity. In places like Colorado, proposed legislation seeks to protect them by classifying deliberate misuse of an old name as discrimination. Yet, this conversation doesn’t have to end at legal bans. Beyond Western frameworks, there exist trans narratives that emphasize integrating the old identity rather than burying it forever. Some see their pre-transition self as an ally—a necessary step on the path to wholeness.
Respect remains the cornerstone. Regardless of culture or background, a person’s name is intimately tied to their sense of self. If someone is deeply hurt by any mention of their old name, we should honor that. If another person can view that name with compassion or pride, we should respect their openness. These positions can coexist if we prioritize empathy and open communication.
Above all, this dialogue reminds us of our shared humanity: we are shaped by our past as much as our present. Transition doesn’t erase every former experience—it reframes it, letting us step into alignment with our true selves. Each trans person’s journey is unique, defined by personal feelings, cultural influences, and family contexts. The key is recognizing that no single approach fits everyone. As laws evolve to punish bigotry, we must also create space for personal choice and healing.
In the end, loving ourselves means acknowledging who we once were—even if that person carried a name we no longer use. It means treating that old self kindly or, at least, with forgiveness for whatever failures or pains we endured. Whether we keep our old name, change it, or occasionally reference it, the goal is to become more whole, not less. Accepting different paths toward self-realization only strengthens our collective understanding of transgender identity.
If you’re a trans individual grappling with these questions, know that your comfort is paramount. You owe no one an explanation for how you feel about your old name. Allies, friends, and family should listen and support you on your terms. And if you find yourself torn between mainstream Western narratives and your own cultural background, remember: there’s no universal rule for how to reconcile who you were with who you are now. Your journey, past and present, belongs entirely to you.
