“What’s in a name? That which we call a rose, by any other name would smell as sweet.”
Shakespeare is known for penning wisdom. His lines have filled volumes of analysis and fueled semester-long college courses for centuries.
Personally, I’m in awe of the man—his tangled plots, his tragic characters (Ophelia still breaks my heart to this day), his universal themes, and his unmatched creativity. He’s credited with inventing more than 1,700 words we still use today. (Me? I’ve invented exactly zero words that have caught on.)
But I’m going to be bold here and challenge that iconic quote from Romeo and Juliet. Because, truthfully? I do think names matter. And I’m living proof—as I’m currently deep in a name/identity crisis of my own.
I was born a Berkhof and lived for 21 years with that identity. As the younger sister by three years, I spent most of high school responding to “Babyberk.” But then I married young (summer in between my junior and senior year) and never thought twice about the traditional expectation of taking on my husband’s name.
By the time I began student teaching in the spring of my senior year, I was already “Mrs. Bolt.” And for the past 25 years, that’s exactly who I’ve been.
But as I began flexing my writing muscles and slipping on the author hat, something stirred. My name resurfaced for the first time in a quarter-century, and I started wonder who I wanted to be.
There’s something about an author’s name that feels permanent. When writing books or other pieces for publication, there is a consideration of legacy. When I am published, my book will outlive me. It will be around for generations to come. My kids and grandkids and great-grandkids will get to read it and will see my name on it.
But what was that name to be?
These days, an author isn’t just a writer—they’re a brand. A platform. A searchable identity.
I experimented with “Kimberly Berk” as a pen name, but my daughter quickly declared she hated it. One agent told me it’s just too complicated to go by a pen name these days. Samuel Clemens may have pulled off “Mark Twain” in the 1800s, but he didn’t have to worry about matching his website domain and Instagram handle.
But I wanted my maiden name to own a piece of this legacy. My grandmother had two boys who in turn had 4 girls, so our family name will end with my dad and uncle.
So, for now, I’ve landed on Kim Berkhof Bolt. It’s a bridge—connecting who I was with who I am now.
It’s not coming as naturally as I thought. I’ve started updating my email address, and I’m practicing using my full name every chance I get: signing it, saying it, writing it.
In March, while picking up my son from the airport after his spring break, I spotted a steel beam available for signatures—a commemorative piece for a construction project. Naturally, I had a Sharpie in my purse (I believe everyone should carry one). I signed my first name… and then paused. Something nudged me to write the new name. The real one.
When I stepped back, that small moment felt significant.
Maybe this is the start of a new chapter.
