Issue #77: My husband won't take my last name

And eight other stories around last names and marriage.

Written by

Aja Frost

. Edited by

Aliza Sir

and

Elisabeth Leoni

.

I’m proud of my name, even though I can’t claim any credit for it. Aja (pronounced “Asia”) comes from the titular Steely Dan album. Frost is likely a name my great-grandfather invented passing through Ellis Island. The combination is unique; my dad tells me he was going for something that would look good on a book jacket or newspaper byline.   

My name has been part of my identity for as long as I can remember, which is probably why I never saw myself letting go of any part of it. Even when I was little, I didn’t doodle my first name with my crush’s last name — in my fantasies, I was always, always Aja Frost.

After Sam and I moved in together, I started having a new and somewhat unexpected fantasy. When we got married, he’d take my name and become Sam Frost. 

I’ve asked him if he’d take my last name a thousand different ways. I’ve offered (jokingly but not really) to let him decide our kids’ first names, every movie or show we watch for an entire year, and/or where we go on our next five trips. He’s kindly but firmly told me no every single time. I’ve promised to let it go… but I’m still thinking about it.

And so I put out a call to readers: Did they have notable experiences or opinions around last names and marriage? I got an overwhelming number of responses. Some women were adamant they’d never change their last name, while others never questioned taking their husband’s. Yet others were originally planning to change but decided not to — and the other way around. It became clear the complexity and contradictoriness of my emotions are far from unique. For modern cis-hetero relationships, they’re the norm.

Most of the women I talked to — whether they changed their last name or not — talked about its importance to their identity: professional, cultural, and familial.

For example, Melinda Fakuade, who’s a staff reporter for Vox and got engaged to her partner earlier this year, won’t be changing her last name. Fakuade is Nigerian – while her fiancé’s name, DeCarlo, would likely make people think she’s white. She doesn’t want to lose the Black heritage in her name. 

Her work is another big consideration. “I mostly think of my writing work as something done by ‘Melinda Fakuade,’” she explains. “My fiancé, our relationship, and our marriage feel very personal and separate from my career. For some reason, bringing his name into it feels like irrelevant information.”

Hanna Kozlowska

, former reporter for Quartz and The New York Times and author of the forthcoming book U UP?, has similar reasons for keeping her last name. When she and her husband got married in 2020, she’d been a journalist for nearly a decade. The consistency of her byline matters. (Research shows that having a consistent name across your career isn’t just important for writers — women who have “made a name for themselves” are much likelier to keep it after getting married.)

Like Melinda, Hanna also doesn’t want to lose what her last name represents about her heritage. She’s Polish — partially grew up in Poland — and considers her Polishness an indelible part of her. It’s not that she has a particular attachment to being a Kozlowska: It’s a common last name, and she actually doesn’t know that much about her dad’s side of the family. 

“What I did and do have an attachment to is my own personal identity as a journalist with a long record of work, to being Polish, and to the idea of a woman being her own self, all signaled by ‘Kozlowska,’” she says.

Licensed clinician Julie Mills married her husband this summer and did take his last name. “I struggled with the change honestly — and still haven’t done the paperwork if that’s a sign! — because my whole life, my name has not only been a representation of my family, who I absolutely adore, but me in general,” she says. 

Growing up, people never called her just Julie; it was always Julie Mills. ‘I’m going to Julie Mills’ house,’ or ‘Julie Mills is driving.’ 

However, even though her husband didn’t ask her to, Julie ultimately decided to take his last name. 

“When we do have a family, I liked the idea of having a last name that was inclusive to all of us. I like the idea of signing a card with ‘The Grants’ and not feeling like I’m left out in some way,” Julie says.

As a happy medium, she changed her middle name to “Mills,” explaining that while legally her name will be Julie Grant, she can exist as Julie Mills anytime she wants. She doesn’t plan on changing the names she uses for social media or work.

This concept — of having dual identities you can toggle between — also comes up in my conversation with Melinda. 

“I like the idea of being Melinda Fakuade intrinsically and legally and getting to be Melinda DeCarlo or Melinda Fakuade DeCarlo when I feel like it,” she says. “Feels like it gives my own name even more personal power — all the other names revolve around it, but it’s immovable.”

Julie’s desire to have a last name for a holiday card might sound surface-level, but I think it speaks to a deep and primal want: to feel connected as a unit. 

Writer of 

What To Cook When You Don't Feel Like Cooking

and NYT best-selling cookbook of the same name

Caroline Chambers

says it’s recently started bothering her that her kids have her husband’s last name. 

“When it comes up — at a school thing where we are called ‘the Hodgins’ or something — I feel deeply jealous!” she says. “I still don’t want to change it, but every now and then I wish my babies had my name.”

Aliza Sir

kept her name, but her son took her husband’s, and she feels similarly.

The practical benefits of a shared last name came up often in my conversations, but according to the women who don’t have the same last name as their partner and/or kids, it’s not a big deal.

Carly Martin

, who runs an illustration and design business, got married in 2017 and felt strongly about not changing her name, “mostly because I didn’t have a good enough reason to change it” and her future husband didn’t, either. They agreed if it became a challenge once they had kids, she could take his. However, she now has a toddler — who has her husband’s last name — and feels just as strongly about keeping hers. 

“Sometimes it’s annoying to put in two different last names when I’m registering my son for a class or dealing with airline tickets, but that’s really the only time it’s even a slight issue,” she says. 

After the intensity of pregnancy, labor, delivery, and the early years of raising their kid, it feels a little crazy to Carly that her son doesn’t have her last name. 

“That being said, I like that I can set an example for him that I’m my own person and show him that we’re no less a family just because I didn’t change my name when I got married to his dad,” she says. 

Lena and her husband, who got married several years ago, both kept their last names. Their three kids took her name. She really likes the idea of having a name that connects the five of them on paper — it feels “antiquated or silly” but still matters to her. 

“I guess it’s just another layer of being connected to each other, an official way,” she says. 

But day-to-day it doesn’t matter much. “Nobody blinks that my husband has a different name.  Insurance, bank stuff, house stuff, it all doesn’t matter.”  

According to a 2023 Pew Research Center survey, the vast majority of men (92%) in opposite-sex relationships keep their name. Just 2% would even consider taking their partner’s last name. (The numbers are nearly flipped for women: Nearly 80% have taken their husband’s last name.)

Nani Durnan and her husband are one of the few exceptions. When they got married, he became “Mr. Durnan.” 

Her husband wanted to share a family name — mostly for logistical reasons, Nani explains. (“One name at the pediatrician’s office, the office holiday party, etc.”) He and his father are the only people in their extended family who shared their last name, so while Nani “never totally loved” her last name, it represented her connection to many people who raised her in a way that wasn’t true for him. 

“I also loved the idea that our kids would have my last name, because I’m one of three daughters and my sisters’ future children will have their dads’ last names,” Nani says. “When I suggested that he take my last name and explained that rationale, he was totally game. It just made sense to both of us.”

Nani and Baz didn’t face any negative reactions from their decision — his parents were incredibly supportive, while her dad was thrilled and touched. 

It set the tone for their marriage as well. 

“Even just considering the option made it feel like we were setting the terms for our future life together, rather than blindly following the status quo,” Nani says.  

Hearing Nani’s experience makes me deeply envious. It also helps me clarify why I’m so fixated on this question. 

Sam’s resistance to adopting my last name isn’t — at least consciously — about gender norms. He’s told me he’s excited to be the primary parent, taking the lead on bedtimes and nap times and mealtimes, and later, homework and school picks-ups and drop-offs and extracurriculars. When we’re talking to our parents’ friends, and they ask him questions about work, he’ll intentionally shift the conversation to me, saying, “Aja’s the one on the fast track.” 

I want Sam to become Sam Frost to signal that we are going to do things differently. That the balance we’ve struck — the equal split of responsibilities now, and an untraditional split of responsibilities once we have kids — will stick. 

When we first moved in together, I was always getting angry at how much less he did to keep the apartment clean. He was seemingly oblivious. I’d spend an hour scouring the kitchen, and then he’d walk in, put a used glass next to the sink, and walk away. If a friend was in the neighborhood, he’d tell them to stop by — and was always shocked when I immediately leapt into motion, running a wet sponge over the counter-tops to catch all the crumbs, frantically piling up junk on the table so it looked a little more organized, and speed-vacuuming the floors. 

“It looks fine!” he’d protest.

It looked messy, was the truth, and I felt the weight of someone walking in and seeing our home in that state far more than he did. 

But what bothered me most wasn’t that I was more attuned to cleanliness or knew how to wipe a mirror without leaving streaks. He could — and did — learn all of that. 

What really bothered me was that I cared more. I had visions of our future with kids and all the work that came with them. I knew it was a jump from counter-tops to classroom treats, but why would the dynamic change? If I did more around our home, wouldn’t I end up bearing more responsibility for our kids?

My anxiety isn’t irrational. Over the last fifty years, the percentage of women who make as much or more than their husband has tripled — but women consistently spend more time on care-giving and housework, even when they’re the breadwinner. Men, meanwhile, spend more time on work and leisure. 

I grew up seeing this inequity. My mom did most of the domestic labor: She made lunches and dinners every day, drove us to and from school and soccer practice and Speech and Debate tournaments, took us to the library and mall and our friends’ houses, did all the grocery-shopping, assigned our chores, comforted us when we cried, signed our permissions slips, chaperoned school trips, went to parent-teacher nights, kept track of our homework and projects, fed our family pets, and made sure the house didn’t fall into chaos. And she worked fifty-plus hours per week. She used to fall asleep on the couch each night by 9 P.M. 

Rationally, I know what Sam does with his last name has no bearing on how much domestic labor he shoulders, but emotionally, it feels like something solid to hold on to. A commitment that even when it’s hard, or untraditional, we’re going to do things differently. 

Because I’ve elevated my last name to a referendum on our future, I can’t give it up. I ask casually, sincerely, in front of our friends, and in private. I explain why it matters so much to me and ask him to please, please consider it. 

Finally, while I’m writing this essay, he tells me no in a way that decisively shuts the conversation down. The idea of changing his last name makes him deeply sad. It would feel like repudiating his family. He can’t do it. 

The kids will still get my last name. We’ve never really discussed this; I just assumed, given my vision of us all being Frost. But this stings a bit for Sam, I learn. Growing up, he pictured his wife and children getting his last name. I catch myself from giving him a pat on the back. Not that I don’t appreciate it — and agreeing to pass my name onto our future children is definitely unconventional — but his sacrifice is one women make all the time, without fanfare or appreciation.

I also completely understand where Sam’s coming from. How can I not? He’s deeply attached to his name, as am I. As are Julie, Melinda, Caroline, Hanna, Carly, Lena, Nani, and all the other women I interviewed.

I have to marry Sam trusting that he’ll keep his promises around parenting. Which is really no different than trusting him to keep the rest of his vows. Getting married is a leap of faith; having kids is an even bigger one. 

Sam will keep his last name, but once we have a kid, and he or she sees an equal partnership, that’s what they’ll know. Maybe they’ll take their partner’s last name, or their partner will take theirs, or they’ll hyphenate, or they’ll both keep their names. But I hope our children will know what it’s like to do things differently. Ultimately, that’s what I want to pass on. 

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In case you missed it:

• How to get horny again (!)

• On funemployment, Fair Play, and wedding dress shopping

• Planning a wedding — without hating it?

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