Know Your Name
A parable on accountability and the inefficiency of unchecked emotion
​​An unfamiliar face walked through the door with a scowl that arrived before he did. His shoulders slouched, eyes downcast, tone clipped and cold—he approached the hostess with a sharp disapproval that filled the space before she could greet him.
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“What kind of place is this? Why are you the first person I see? You shouldn’t be standing up here. Can I speak with someone else?”
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He never made eye contact.
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The hostess paused, stunned—not just by the words but by the energy behind them. In a split second, she felt a surge of discomfort, rejection, and the familiar sting of invisible wounds—TnT, her trauma and triggers, itching to ignite.
Before she could formulate a response, a voice cut through the tension—not loud, but clear, commanding in its kindness.
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“Excuse me, sir,” the man said. “Tell me your name.” Everyone turned.
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He was clean-cut, stylish, and poised. His suit—brilliantly tailored and tastefully bold—fit like it had been made for this moment. No tie, just a soft confidence. His custom Vans complemented a sharp white and peach rose brooch pinned to his lapel. Five yellow letters were embroidered on his suit pocket: TYFYK. The man who had just berated the hostess blinked, caught off guard but still determined not to lose face.
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“And who are you supposed to be?” he replied with veiled irritation. “Why do you have this thing standing up here greeting people? This what you want representing your establishment?”
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Unfazed, the gentleman slowed his cadence, letting the question land with weight.
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“Do you know what your name is?” The man scoffed. “I said Mike. What’s your point?”
The gentleman nodded. “Mike. Got it. But let me ask again—do you know your name?”
He continued:“My name is John. There are many Johns in this room. Just like there are Mikes.”
He turned and addressed the room, his voice inviting: “How many Mikes do we have in here? Raise your hands.”
Four hands rose.
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“And Johns?”
“One... two... three... four... five,” he counted aloud. “Five Johns. Not including myself. So I ask again—do you know your name? Because now, we all know it quite well.”
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Mike shifted uncomfortably, unsure where this was headed. “I already said it’s Mike,” he grumbled. “What’s your point?”
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John smiled gently, but firmly. “Mike is just the label on the box. The sentiment you carry is what tells us what’s inside. It’s the energy you activate when you connect with others—that becomes your real name. So when I ask do you know your name in this moment, what would you say, Mike?”
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Mike faltered. The tension had shifted. He suddenly felt seen, not for who he claimed to be—but for how he had shown up. Before he could answer, John continued.
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“How about ‘Asshole Mike’? ‘Bitter Mike’? ‘Hurt-people-hurt-people Mike’? That’s the name you’ve made for yourself in this moment. "That’s the memory you’re leaving behind.”
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John’s tone remained calm, but resolute.
“You’re giving us something not even you would want to receive. That’s what inefficiency in our humanity looks like: justifying harmful actions we wouldn’t accept for ourselves—then offloading them onto others as a performance of power. But it’s a hollow power. It breaks trust. It breeds pain. And it disconnects you—from others, and more importantly, from yourself.”
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Then he paused. Let the silence sit.
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The End ​
The Moral:
Know your name.
Know the name you are making for yourself in every moment. Know the sentiment you activate when you enter a space because that’s the name people remember.
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This is self-awareness. This is accountability.
And this is how we begin to restore what is broken, inside us and around us.
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Because life is, without question, a struggle.
So struggle well.