Fact Check Me: I Was Never Eric

I don’t think I ever really claimed my name.

I’ve been Sensei to some.

Dad to one.

Husband to another.

V.

Buddy.

Hey-you.

But never just Eric.

Not because I didn’t like the name —

because I learned early that being myself wasn’t the job.

The job was to fit. To adjust. To read the room. To be what was needed before anyone had to ask.

So I became useful. Capable. Dependable. I wore titles well because titles come with instructions.

But a name? A name doesn’t tell you what you’re supposed to do. It just tells you who you are.

And I don’t think I was ever taught that I was allowed to answer that question for myself.

Most of my life, I wasn’t becoming someone — I was editing someone. Trimming edges. Lowering volume. Translating myself into something more palatable.

That’s why this feels new. Not because I changed — but because I stopped disappearing.

This isn’t reinvention. It’s first contact.

I’m not confused. I’m not lost. I’m not having a moment.

I’m just no longer adjusting myself to meet expectations that were never mine to begin with.

I didn’t lose myself. I postponed myself.

And now, finally,

I like wearing my name.

Eric.

Fact check me.