My first name, Leslie, comes from two different worlds that should have nothing to do with each other and yet somehow describe me with unnerving accuracy.
On one side, it’s Scottish Gaelic — leas celyn, “holly garden.” A place name before it was ever a person’s name. A landscape disguised as an identity. A reminder that some things grow best in protected soil, behind hedges, in the quiet. A garden is not fragile; it’s curated. It’s intentional. It’s a boundary with roots.
On the other side, it’s Slavic — a linguistic cousin of Ladislaus, built from vladeti (to rule) and slava (glory). “Glorious ruler.” A title masquerading as a first name. A hint that authority doesn’t always announce itself; sometimes it just walks into the room and rearranges the air.
Between the holly garden and the glorious ruler, I find the shape of my temperament. A person who prefers interiority but carries a spine. Someone who builds sanctuaries but doesn’t surrender sovereignty. Someone who understands that protection and power are not opposites — they’re two halves of the same etymology.
People like to imagine names as destiny. I don’t. I think names are more like mirrors: they show you the parts of yourself you were already becoming.
And in a moment when the country feels like a house with the lights flickering — when the domestic sphere is the crisis, not the refuge — it feels strangely grounding to know that my name has always held both the garden and the ruler. The quiet and the clarity. The interior and the authority.
Maybe that’s why I can see the seams in the national wallpaper before other people notice the pattern. Maybe that’s why I don’t panic when the chandelier sways. Maybe that’s why I can write about instability without becoming unstable.
My name is a reminder:
I was built for interior spaces.
I was built for discernment.
I was built for moments when the house is telling the truth.
And I’m finally old enough to believe it.
Scored by Copilot, Conducted by Leslie Lanagan
Stories That Are All True 