What's in a Name? Apparently, Everything
Growing into the name I almost rejected
I used to wish I had a different name.
Not because mine was difficult to pronounce, or because it was foreign, or even because it had overtly religious roots. No, none of that bothered me. I wanted a different name simply because I got tired — tired of the assumptions, the double takes, the casual surprise on people’s faces when they realized I was the Raihan they’d read or heard about.
“Loh, kirain cowok”, they’d say, eyebrows raised. Sometimes it was said with a laugh. Other times with genuine confusion. Either way, it lingered.
My full name is Raihan Khairunnisa. And for most of my childhood — and truthfully, even into early adulthood — I felt a quiet dissonance with the first half of it.
The Boy Name Dilemma
Where I come from, Raihan is usually reserved for boys. It’s compact, gender-neutral at first glance, and lacks the soft phonetic endings that signal femininity in Indonesian naming conventions — like the lilting -a of Anisa or the gentle -i of Putri. It doesn’t sparkle with the kind of girlishness people expect. Instead, it registers as firm. Masculine-adjacent. Possibly even slightly austere.
I remember introductions where people would glance past me, searching for the real Raihan. Classmates who did double takes. A friend’s parent once joked that maybe my parents had wanted a son and just rolled with the name anyway. Teachers stumbled over the attendance list, always pausing awkwardly:
“Raihan… ini laki-laki atau perempuan?”
Worse yet, I was once mistakenly placed in the boys’ section. No one double-checked. They just assumed.
It may sound trivial to an outsider. But when you’re a young girl, trying to make sense of who you are, and the world around you keeps mislabeling your very name, it quietly chips away at something. You begin to question what parts of you are valid. You feel the tug toward becoming smaller, quieter, more generic — easier for others to categorize.
So I started leaning hard into the second half of my name: Khairunnisa. Or more specifically, the affectionate nickname that emerged from it — Runni.
It felt softer. More expected. More easily embraced by others. It became my safe zone. My default introduction. My digital signature. My brand, even. Everything was under the name Runni, not Raihan. Not because I was hiding — but because I felt protected there. Like I didn’t have to explain anything.
Over time, Runni became more than just a name. It became armor.
But Then I Got Curious
For the longest time, I avoided looking too closely at Raihan. It felt like a shirt that didn’t fit — too big in some places, too tight in others. Why force myself to grow into it?
But as I got older — and maybe a little more secure in myself — curiosity crept in. I started wondering: what does my name actually mean? Not in passing, not just what people around me assumed — but its etymology, its roots, its essence.
What I found was… surprising. Even humbling.
In Arabic, raihan (رَيْحَان) refers to a fragrant herb — basil, often — but more broadly, it symbolizes aromatic plants and heavenly flowers. In Islamic tradition, raihan appears in the Qur’an as a metaphor for peace, comfort, and paradise itself. In Surah Al-Waqi’ah (56:89), for instance, the term is part of the imagery describing rewards for the righteous:
“Then [for him is] rest and bounty and a garden of bliss.”
(Implied from the mention of raihan, as part of paradise’s fragrant blessings.)
The word isn’t masculine. It’s not coded with strength or power in the way many “male” names are. Instead, it’s tender. Sensory. Intimately associated with scent, serenity, and sacredness.
It floored me.
All this time I thought I had a name that didn’t reflect me as a woman — when in reality, it was rooted in florals, fragrance, and ethereal grace.
The irony was sharp. And also, a little poetic.
The Irony of Fragrance
Because here’s the thing: I make perfumes.
Not formally trained, eventhough I majored in chemistry. But I’ve been obsessed with scent and formulation for years. I create them in small batches, often obsessing over floral notes — neroli, tuberose, jasmine, rose, osmanthus. My work is about emotion, memory, tenderness. It’s about crafting small invisible worlds that wrap around the skin like an embrace.
I often say that flowers are my first language. Their presence calms me. Their scent recenters me. When life feels too sharp, too chaotic, I turn to fragrance — building layers, one note at a time, until I feel whole again.
And one day, it just hit me.
The name I had spent so long pushing away… had always been pointing me toward the path I now walk. I hadn’t chosen fragrance. In a strange way, fragrance had already chosen me — quietly, from the moment my name was spoken aloud.
I didn’t grow into my name.
It grew into me.
And Then There’s Khairunnisa
If Raihan is the understated, fragrant prophecy, Khairunnisa is its crown.
It means “the best of women”. Not metaphorically — literally. The name carries weight. It references nobility, spiritual excellence, and dignity. Most notably, it’s a title often linked to Khadijah, the first wife of the Prophet Muhammad. A woman revered for her intellect, strength, and moral clarity.
For a long time, I found the name intimidating. Not because it was long or foreign — but because I didn’t feel worthy of it. Who was I, really, to carry a name like that?
But names like Khairunnisa aren’t declarations. They’re aspirations. They aren’t there to define who you are in the moment — they’re gentle reminders of who you might still become.
Even though I rarely introduce myself with the full name, it’s become an internal anchor. It informs how I try to move through the world: with thoughtfulness, with integrity, with strength.
It’s less about perfection, more about direction.
Names Are Never Neutral
One thing I’ve learned is this: names are not just empty markers. They’re never truly neutral.
They carry with them layers — linguistic, cultural, spiritual. They carry assumptions. Expectations. Stories. Sometimes those stories feel like burdens. Other times, they unfold over time and begin to make sense in unexpected ways.
In many traditions — especially Arabic and Islamic ones — names are prayers. Hopes. A kind of whispered wish that the person will grow into the meaning they carry.
And sometimes, they do.
Sometimes, a name becomes more than just what you’re called.
It becomes who you’re called to be.
Two Names, One Story
Today, I still go by Runni in almost every social and professional context. It’s easy. Familiar. It feels like home.
But I’ve stopped flinching at Raihan. I let it breathe more. I write under it. I speak it aloud when I want to remind myself of softness. Of scent. Of the part of me that was once buried under confusion but now blooms with quiet assurance.
Raihan is the name my parents gave me.
Runni is the name I gave myself.
And both are true. Both are mine.
Two notes of the same fragrance.
Two verses in the same prayer.
Final Reflection
For years, I believed my name didn’t suit me. Now I understand : I simply hadn’t grown into it yet.
Names are strange like that. They can feel too heavy at first. Too big. Or too foreign. But over time, they can reveal parts of you you hadn’t yet met. They stretch as you do. They take on new shades.
And if you’re willing to look closely, to listen carefully, you might find that your name has always known something about you that you were still in the process of becoming.
Because a name isn’t just a label.
Sometimes, it’s a seed.
A quiet promise.
A fragrant kind of prophecy.
from Runnilune, still learning.
written by Raihan Khairunnisa.
If this piece gave you something to think about, or even just a quiet pause—thank you for being here.
And if you’d like to help fuel the next stretch of musing, I’ll never say no to a good cup of caffeine. It helps keep the questions unfolding—and the habit of noticing alive. :)