Should I Change My Last Name After Marriage?

In the small hours before my friend Laura's wedding, she confided a nagging uncertainty that had followed her through months of planning. "I've built my career with my name. Every publication, every byline, every professional achievement—it's me, encoded in those letters arranged precisely in that order," she said, her voice barely audible above the distant sounds of last-minute preparations. "But I love the idea of sharing a name with him, with our future children, of announcing to the world that we've chosen each other above all others." She traced the rim of her champagne glass with a fingertip, staring into its depths as though the answer might be found there. "Am I betraying something essential about myself either way?"

The question of whether women should take their husband's surname upon marriage has evolved from a social mandate to a complex choice fraught with competing values—tradition versus autonomy, family cohesion versus individual identity, simplicity versus principle. This evolution mirrors broader societal shifts regarding gender, marriage, and personal identity, yet it remains uniquely personal, a decision made at the intersection of practicality, emotion, professional considerations, and philosophical stance. The persistent intensity of this seemingly administrative decision reveals deeper currents in how we understand selfhood and connection in contemporary life. That a question as apparently straightforward as what name to use could provoke such contemplation suggests we are navigating territories where language itself struggles to articulate what's at stake.

The practice of women adopting their husband's surname stems from coverture laws, where a woman's legal identity was literally subsumed into her husband's upon marriage—she became, in law's cold language, his possession. The surname change symbolized this transfer of ownership from father to husband, a linguistic manifestation of patriarchal control that extended to property rights, citizenship, and virtually every aspect of public life. This historical context lingers in contemporary debates, an uncomfortable foundation that can't be entirely scrubbed away by modern rationalizations about choice and tradition. When we examine this history dispassionately, the tradition appears at best anachronistic, at worst actively perpetuating imbalanced gender expectations that have no place in partnerships presumed equal.

Yet traditions evolve beyond their origins, taking on meanings that transcend and sometimes contradict their historical roots. Many women who change their names today describe it not as subordination but as a deliberate choice to forge a new family identity—a symbolic gesture that bridges past and future while creating coherence in the present. They speak of unity, of creating something larger than themselves—a foundation upon which to build a shared life that honors connection over individualism. For these women, the decision represents not capitulation to patriarchal expectations but a reclaiming of tradition, infusing it with new meaning that centers on mutual commitment rather than ownership. The ritual becomes theirs to define, a powerful act of creation rather than compliance.

Those who keep their birth names often frame the decision around professional identity, personal history, and fundamental selfhood—a recognition that a name accumulated through decades becomes more than a label, but a vessel containing accomplishments, relationships, and an established presence in the world. Their names represent years of hard-won achievement and recognition that shouldn't be casually discarded as though the pre-marital self were merely prologue to the "real" identity of wife. Why, they ask, should one partner sacrifice this continuity while the other maintains it uninterrupted? The asymmetry of expectation reveals the lingering influence of gender norms that presume women's identities as more malleable, more contingent, more naturally subsumed into relationship roles than men's.

The family cohesion argument favoring shared surnames has undeniable practical appeal beyond its symbolic resonance. A unified family name simplifies bureaucratic matters from school registrations to travel documentation to medical authorizations, creating administrative clarity that can prove valuable in countless everyday scenarios. It visibly marks the family unit in social contexts, avoiding explanations and confusion in communities where shared surnames remain the expected norm. Children with the same surname as both parents avoid confused teachers, administrative complications, and the subtle othering that can come with family structures that deviate from conventional patterns. This cohesion creates what sociologists call "family capital"—the sense of belonging and continuity that strengthens bonds across generations and provides psychological security in an increasingly fragmented social landscape.

Conversely, the individual identity argument holds that authentic commitment doesn't require symbolic erasure, and that partnerships built on genuine equality shouldn't begin with one partner relinquishing a fundamental marker of identity while the other retains uninterrupted continuity. The emergence of hyphenated names, the small but growing acceptance of men taking their wives' surnames, and creative alternatives like blended surnames suggests evolving thinking about family identity as collaborative creation rather than patrilineal inheritance. These innovations preserve individual histories while acknowledging the transformative nature of partnership, offering potential bridges between competing values of autonomy and unity. They represent attempts to create new traditions that honor both the institution of marriage and the equal personhood of those entering it, refusing the false choice between connection and selfhood.

The naming debate touches something deeper than logistics or feminism—it concerns how we understand the relationship between individual and community in modern life, the extent to which we see ourselves as autonomous agents versus embedded members of social units with responsibilities and identities that transcend personal preference. Marriage represents both personal fulfillment and participation in a social institution that predates and will outlast us, a tension that runs through virtually every aspect of contemporary partnership. Perhaps the persistent discomfort around the naming question reflects this fundamental duality of marriage itself, its simultaneous promise of intimate connection and social recognition, of private commitment and public declaration. The name becomes a visible manifestation of how couples navigate these competing demands, a linguistic battleground for larger questions about identity in relationship.

What remains essential is that the decision be truly free—neither coerced by family expectation and tradition nor constrained by progressive peer pressure that assigns political significance to what might be, for some, simply a personal preference. A woman keeping her name isn't necessarily making a feminist statement or rejecting family unity, just as one changing it isn't necessarily surrendering autonomy or endorsing traditional gender roles. The ability to choose freely, with full awareness of the implications and without judgment from either direction, represents the core ethical value at stake. True equality lies not in which specific choice a woman makes, but in whether society genuinely allows her to make it without attaching excessive meaning or predicting her character based on this single decision among the thousands that constitute a life partnership.

Laura ultimately took her husband's name after weeks of thoughtful conversation with her partner, her family, and herself about what mattered most to her. "My career is still mine, my achievements still belong to me, regardless of the name attached to them," she told me months after the wedding, seeming settled in her decision in a way she hadn't been during those anxious pre-wedding hours. "My name is just one part of who I am, not the entirety of my identity, and sharing this symbol with my husband feels right for the family we're building." Another friend, Sophia, kept hers after similar deliberation, explaining, "We're creating our own traditions that reflect our values, not just inheriting customs without questioning them. His family embraces me as I am, name intact, and we'll figure out what to do about children's names when we get there." Both women made choices that felt authentic to their circumstances, relationships, and values, finding peace in decisions that acknowledged complexity rather than seeking simple resolution.

In the end, a name exists in the liminal space between self and society, between the intimate sense of who we are and how others know us—a bridge between individual identity and shared belonging that few other aspects of personhood occupy quite so explicitly. The ethical dimension of the naming question lies not in which choice a woman makes, but in ensuring that the social context genuinely allows her to make it freely, without undue pressure from either progressive or traditional forces that would inscribe political meaning onto what remains, finally, a deeply personal decision. Perhaps the most meaningful progress in this debate isn't reaching consensus on the "right" choice, but creating conditions where women can make either choice without it being read as a referendum on their commitment to either equality or family. The true liberation may be in separating the administrative act from excessive symbolic weight, allowing each woman to define for herself what her name means and how it relates to her understanding of partnership, tradition, and selfhood.

About the Author

Sara E. Olivera is a cultural critic and essayist whose work explores the intersection of tradition, identity, and modern relationships.