A Rose by Any Other Name

Names carry stories, hold memories, and people that shape us. Growing up, I had many different names. Many that I didn’t value until adulthood.

Before I was adopted, I was Daniel Sexton/ Foster, depending on which paperwork you look at. Once I was adopted, I became Martyn Kitney. Even then, that name was hardly used. Due to Back to the Future, I became Marty at school until sixth form, when it became Mart.

I don’t know why my name had a Y. My mum would tease that every name, including my middle name, had a Y in it because I was a troublesome kid, which made her say, “Why, Martyn, why?” So the Y in my name was justified, but I’ll add that to the many things I wish I knew.

Yet close family members, like Mum, Dad, Aunts, and Uncles, called me Little Mo or Mo.

[Image 2. Me as a small child. Capturing myself as Little Mo]

Two stories exist for it. One says it was linked to tennis player Maureen Connolly, known as “Little Mo.” The other says I wasn’t able to say Martyn and due to delayed, and likely ASD‑related, speech issues, I said Mo instead.

All I know is that to the outside world I was Martyn, Marty, or Mart. Inside my parents’ house, I was Little Mo.

I reached fourteen when that changed. My Aunt and Uncle, their daughter, and her children came to stay from Wiltshire. I tried asserting my grown‑up teenager image and asked them to drop it. They agreed, but not fully. It was no longer Little Mo. It was just Mo. So it carried on and I accepted it.

I never appreciated how precious it was. I remember the boys’ mum was there, so I must have been nineteen or twenty. My Aunt and Uncle were visiting again and Mum said, “Call Mo, tell him dinner is ready.” The boys’ mum walked in and said, “Mo, dinner is ready,” only to get told off. She couldn’t call me Mo. She never earned it. I was still only Martyn or Mart to her.

Then Mum died. The person who always called me Mo no matter what. Dad did, but it wasn’t really his thing. He would call me it when speaking to my Aunt or Uncle, but I was still Martyn. When his memory deteriorated thanks to dementia, Mo faded and I stayed just Martyn.

This left only three people who would call me Mo. My Aunt Christine, Uncle Geoff, and their daughter Tanya. I say Aunt and Uncle, but Aunt Christine was Dad’s first cousin. They grew up together like siblings due to wartime measures and her dad passing away. So it was always Aunt and Uncle. Aunt Christine and Uncle Geoff had five daughters. Tanya is the only one who still calls me Mo. The others reference it, but face to face, I’m still Martyn.

[Image 3. A picture of me with my Aunt and Uncle taken in 2024. From left to right, Uncle Geoff, myself, Aunt Christine]

I love that side of the family. They always visited us growing up, were fun, and loved me as much as I loved them. They all knew me as Mo. Yet now I’m forty‑three, older, with kids of my own, and an equal grown‑up, I’m Martyn. Mo, the indoor secret name, is now left to two people. Aunt Christine and Tanya, since Uncle Geoff died last year just shy of his ninetieth birthday.

It’s strange. A name that was your main name for years becoming an artefact held by only two people.

Hannah has been wary. I think the boys’ mum story scared her. She doesn’t want to say it and upset me, or worse, say it and be rejected.

She turned my fourth birthday VHS into digital. She put my headphones on me and the words, “I can’t hear anything Mo, why aren’t you talking?” rang out in my mum’s voice. A voice I hadn’t heard for twelve years. To hear it again meant everything. It brought my name and the love that came with it back.

[Image 4. A still photo taken from the 4th birthday party the moment my mum called me Mo]

We visited my Aunt last weekend. Her daughter said the same. She likes Hannah and can’t see why she can’t use it.

We will see if she does. Someone has to. It saddens me to think that a name carrying so much love is barely used and will eventually fade.

Names carry stories, hold memories, people, and moments that shaped us. Mo has carried all of that. It’s held childhood, family, love, loss, and the quiet thread of belonging that ran through my life. It isn’t just a nickname. It’s a piece of my history spoken out loud.

I don’t know how long it will last or who will say it in the years ahead, but a rose by any other name would smell as sweet, and I carry mine. Whether I am Martyn, Mart, Marty, or Mo, I’m still me. Loved, held, remembered, and shaped by every person who ever spoke my name with affection.

Maybe that’s enough. Maybe I’ll always be Mo.