Marriage is sold as the grand union of two souls, two families, and one future. But let’s be clear. What it often means is the quiet disappearance of one surname. Hers. Because nothing says “forever” like erasing your birth identity to prove your devotion.
When Shakespeare wrote “What’s in a name?” he wasn’t talking about matrimony. If he had been, Juliet would have been buried under stacks of forms, updating signatures, passports, and social media handles. Romeo, meanwhile, would remain blissfully untouched, celebrated for being exactly who he always was.
Society calls it a sign of unity. A beautiful tradition. Translation: we’ve done this since feudal times and never bothered to question it. Imagine suggesting a man take his wife’s surname. Outrage. Almost unnatural. As if the earth had been asked to orbit the sun in reverse.
The justifications are familiar. “It’s simpler for the children.” Because children, apparently, can’t cope with parents having different names. “It’s respectful.” As though respect in an equal partnership means erasing your identity. And the all-time favorite: “It’s tradition.” The same line once used to defend witch burning and women’s disenfranchisement.
What makes this ritual even more ironic is the framing of it as a choice. “She chose to take his surname,” people say, proud of her empowerment. Scratch the surface, though, and that choice is tangled in social pressure, judgment, and centuries of conditioning. Refuse to change it and watch relatives morph into amateur genealogists, mourning the end of the family tree.
Meanwhile, men move through life surname-secure. No forms, no altered degrees, no identity questions. No one asks, “Will you take her surname?” because such a thought might trigger cultural collapse. A man giving up his name? That would hint at something dangerous. Equality.
And then there’s the performance on social media. Change your name, and you’re “#WifeyGoals.” Keep your own, and you’re “#FeministStatement.” Hyphenate them, and suddenly you’re “#TooComplicated.” Whatever you do, someone else decides if you’re too traditional or not traditional enough. Because apparently, a woman’s surname belongs to everyone but her.
The practical fallout is equally absurd. Flight tickets missed over mismatched names. Email addresses suddenly invalid. Hours wasted explaining why your identity no longer matches your paperwork. And all for a name not even chosen, but handed down to your husband by his father, and his father before that.
This isn’t really about names. It’s about identity, power, and the quiet endurance of traditions that still expect women to bend. It’s about a system that tells women their love is measured by how much of themselves they’re willing to give up.
So, what’s in a surname? If you’re the one asked to change it, everything. If you’re the one who never had to think about it, nothing. And maybe it’s time we stopped pretending otherwise. Until then, happily ever after begins, not at the altar, but at the municipal office.
