My name is Jhody (the “h” is silent, and yes it is pronounced Jody). This is an unlikely name in my family, and I have hated my name over half my life.

I am my mother's first born and only girl. It is a tradition in my family that her eldest sister, my aunt Idah, names the kids. My mother, who had gotten pregnant in the 12th grade, deviated from that tradition.

My mother hated people touching her pregnant belly during her pregnancy, so it stood out to her one night when she had a dream and an elderly white woman approached her and asked her to touch her stomach. My mother reluctantly said yes, and when the elderly woman touched her, and me inside, she told my mom that she was pregnant with a baby girl. My mom did not know this prior to the dream.

She also told my mom that the little girl inside of her would grow up to be great and have a major impact on the world. She told my mom to name me Jody. After standing up to my aunt by choosing my name herself, my aunt Idah added the “h.”

I am born and raised in Gainesville. I attended Rawlings for elementary school. Rawlings is named after an author, Marjorie K. Rawlings, who wrote the book "The Yearling." It was required that all students read her book, watch the film and even attend a field trip to Rawlings’ home.

You can only imagine the teasing I endured as a black girl named Jhody. I was already accused of being “white” because I was an exceptional honors student that loved to read and write poetry. That was not the norm in the neighborhoods I grew up in. Black girls were not portrayed as smart, poets, educated, and they sure enough were not named Jhody.

Jody is the name of the lead character in "The Yearling." Jody in the book was a poor white boy, so needless to say before fifth grade ended I hated my name and I tried desperately to be everything and everyone but Jhody.

My mom told me the story of how I had gotten my name a few times while I was young, but it never made me feel better. It was when I was 25 years old and in prison when I learned what my name meant for the first time.

Something transformative happened to me in that physical prison. I unlearned everything that I had learned about me while I was incarcerated in poor black neighborhoods of Alachua County and my body. Once I realized that I had been believing a lie, I used that time separated from community to take off my mask and learn to love myself for who I was.

I left the community in 2007 already incarcerated, but when I returned home from prison I was free from the inside out. On the outside I looked just like everyone else, but on the inside I was me. I was Jhody and she was enough.

Once I embraced my name and myself, my life began to accelerate at a phenomenal speed. Even though I was a convicted felon, I was able to obtain employment within 30 days of my release and I was in my own apartment within six months. I was married and accepted into college within a year.

During my third year of release I was hired as a Central Florida organizer on the campaign to restore voting rights to people with felony convictions in Florida and I was offered a position at the River Phoenix Center for Peacebuilding. The following year I was announced as a 2018 Soros Justice Advocacy fellow and I founded the Florida Council for Incarcerated and Formerly Incarcerated Women and Girls. I have since founded the first participatory defense hub in Florida, L.E.A.H, and the Jailhouse Lawyers Initiative, and I have spoken on stages all over the world.

It still amazes me how quickly success came for me once I embraced my name and who I am, and not what others and society labeled me to be. When I say success, I don’t just mean my professional achievements. Accepting and being me allowed me to go through the furnace of life, and not once have I smelled of smoke! Some may say that a name is but a name, but for me it was a revelation. It is me.

This column was printed in partnership with the storytelling group Self Narrate (www.selfnarrate.com).