Until recently, I was the only Holly Croydon on the planet. Or so I thought. Having a completely unique name gave me something I’m not sure I can describe or even understand myself, but I liked it.
Whatever it was, I’d better get over it because I’m *not* the only Holly Croydon. The other Holly Croydon is a lovely young blond woman just a couple of years older than my daughter, who lives in the U.K., is a cyclist, and–if Facebook photo albums are any indicator–loves to go out partying with her many friends.
Perhaps as long as a year ago, I started noticing my name showing up online in results for competitive cycling in England. After four decades of life as the only Holly Croydon on Earth, it came as a quite a shock to discover I was no longer the sole possessor of the name. Eventually, I found the U.K. Holly’s Facebook profile and sent her a friend invitation with a note that I hoped made it clear I wasn’t a weird stalker, just the only other Holly Croydon (or at least one of a very rare few) on the planet and thought that was cool. She accepted.
Now my Facebook news feed includes items that say things like, “Holly Croydon commented on Jane Doe’s photo,” or “Holly Croydon is now friends with…” Which is really weird when it ISN’T ME.
If you are someone who shares a name with lots of folks, you might not realize how big and strange a shift it is for me. But I’m beginning to like it. Perhaps that’s because I take it as yet another reminder that our separateness is illusion, that uniqueness is just an ego-story. I think I’m ready to let that story go.
Holly, if you’re out there, I wish you many blessings and much happiness and grand fun with our name!