Please Don’t Call Me Connor Regan
A name is not merely a combination of letters. It carries the weight of identity, heritage, and personal history. It shapes how we see ourselves and how others perceive us. For me, my name has been a constant reminder of a painful past, an unyielding tie to a person whose actions caused immeasurable emotional damage.
The Weight of a Painful Past
We start by rewinding the clock about 15 years. I grew up in a supportive family in Orange County, California, where my mom, dad, two younger sisters, and I shared a life charactereized by warmth and stability. When the financial crisis of 2008 struck, however, our family was plunged into uncertainty as my parents’ small business faced insurmountable challenges. Amidst the financial turmoil, my father, an alcoholic who had successfully battled his demons for years, succumbed to the pressures.
The aftermath of his relapse was devastating, tearing apart the fabric of our once harmonious existence. The small business he owned with my mom collapsed, our home went into foreclosure, and my parents were pushed into bankruptcy. Still, my dad’s downward spiral continued. He started not coming home at night and was arrested for driving under the influence. His actions and the mounting financial pressures eviscerated my parents’ relationship, leading to their separation and, ultimately, a tumultuous divorce. It was drawn out over years, unleashing a torrent of abuse upon me, my mom, and especially my little sisters. The safe haven I once knew crumbled before my eyes.
In the midst of the turmoil, a glimmer of hope appeared in the form of my grandfather, who my sisters and I called Dada. Just months prior to my dad walking out on our family, my maternal grandmother died suddenly and without warning. The shock of the loss left him grappling with the prospect of navigating life alone. To compound matters, Dada had lost nearly 90% of his vision less than two years prior due to a stroke in his optic nerve, leaving him reliant on others for many of life’s basic tasks. He faced the grim possibility of losing his home, which he could no longer manage independently.
In this perfect storm of grief, financial hardship, and uncertainty, my family faced the imminent threat of homelessness, while Dada risked the loss of his autonomy and home, too. In this critical moment, we formed a new family unit.
My grandpa, a resilient man who had faced his own challenges with parental neglect, selflessly stepped forward when we needed him most. Despite being 78 years old and well into his retirement, he forwent the financial freedom he’d earned and embraced the role of raising a second family — a family borne out of necessity. When he welcomed us into his home, he didn’t just put a roof over our heads. He moved out of the home he’d shared with my grandma for 37 years and into the back house so that my mom and us kids would be as comfortable as possible in our new home. He shouldered this responsibility without hesitation, despite the immense toll it entailed, a testament to his unwavering love and strength of character.
As Dada became our beacon of hope, a pillar of stability, we too became a lifeline for him, offering him solace and companionship during what would have otherwise been the darkest days of his life. I didn’t fully realize until years later how much our days spent playing gin rummy in the backyard, dancing to Dada’s favorite tune “Rock Around the Clock,” or sneakily indulging his sweet tooth would improve his quality of life.
A Name That Honors Legacy
Dada’s extraordinary act of love and sacrifice was the foundation upon which our lives were rebuilt. In him, we found strength and stability, and we forged unbreakable bonds that transcend traditional notions of kinship. Despite his helping shape me into the person I am today, my identity has been intertwined with someone else’s.
My name, Connor Michael Regan, is two-thirds the name of my abuser. The irony is cruel — a name that pays homage to the person whose actions shattered my once thriving family. At times, I’ve felt that I bore the weight of his shameful legacy, a constant reminder of the dark times we endured — and the absence I still feel today.
In contrast, my grandpa’s name carries a profound legacy — one of resilience, determination, and unwavering love. It symbolizes the strength he exhibited in raising us, the lessons he imparted, and the bond we share. And so, I have made the life-altering decision to take on his name as a way to honor his immense role in shaping the person I am. Starting today, I am Connor Owens.
By adopting my new surname, I not only shed the weight of a painful legacy but also embrace the influence Dada had on my life. It’s an act of reclaiming my true identity, a declaration of independence from my past. Connor Owens isn’t just a name; it represents a bridge between generations, a testament to the enduring power of love and family even through dark times.
Will I Be Remembered?
While embarking on this journey of changing my name, I encountered profound questions that echoed within me. If I’m not Connor Regan, then who am I? Will I lose touch with my roots? Will I be remembered? These questions tugged at my heart, revealing the depth of my complicated connection to my own past.
At Stanford GSB, I’ve felt the immense pressure of “being known.” We’re told that the future leaders of the world walk among us, with a subtle implication that you best be visible, unique, intelligent, funny, ambitious, and well-liked. As I wrestled with these expectations in the context of changing my name, the question “will I be remembered?” took on a more insidious tone: “will I be forgotten?”
Paradoxically, being at the GSB both exacerbated my anxieties about being remembered while also equipping me with the tools I needed to overcome them. The intense, almost game theoretical social dynamics here caused me to focus on the risks of changing my name. But the introspective, vulnerable conversations that characterize my experience opened my eyes. Each of my most treasured experiences — Touchy Feely, SGDs, campus walks, WIM, and even Lead Labs — forced me to constantly ask “Who am I?” Asking this existential question honestly and repeatedly has given me the clearest sense of self I’ve ever known.
Importantly, these incredible experiences at the GSB have given me the resources, guidance and space to think meaningfully on these questions and how they relate to my identity and name. It became evident as I wrestled with this transition that our names do not define who we are or what others remember about us. What people remember is the impact we have on them and the way we make them feel. It’s in the love we give, the ideas we share, and the positive change we strive to create.
In changing my name, I’m not erasing the person I once was. Rather, I’m shedding the weight of a name that tied me to a painful past. It is a symbolic act of reclaiming my identity and acknowledging the love and strength Dada helped instill in me. As I prepare to leave this place of growth and head into an uncertain but exciting future, I carry the name Owens with pride — a name that represents the enduring legacy of the extraordinary man who helped raise me.
