There are a few categories of how people react when I introduce myself. See which category you fit into: My name is Isolde, pronounced in a very German way. Every letter counts—no silent “e.” The “I” is pronounced like the “ie” in “field” or the “ee” in “seen.” The “e” at the end is pronounced like the “e” in “the” without the “th.” How would you react?
After all these years with that name, I have extracted four main categories:
The confused: “Oh, I’ve never heard of that before. How do you pronounce it?”
The amazed: “Wow, I’ve never met someone with that name. How unique!”
The kin: “Oh, that was my late great-grandmother’s name!”
The intellectual: “Oh, and where is your Tristan?” (Usually, each old white man who says that thinks they are the very first one to make that comment.) Alternatively, they ask if my parents like Wagner.
In case you don’t know what people in this category are talking about, the name and character of Isolde became popular mainly through the Celtic version of Romeo and Juliet, namely Tristan and Isolde. After Richard Wagner composed a four-hour-long opera based on the plot of Tristan and Isolde, the story gained even more popularity, especially in Germany.
But not enough popularity to motivate more parents to name their daughters Isolde. According to a website that tracks the popularity of first names in Germany, only 50 girls were given the name between 2010 and 2024, over a span of 14 years. Very charming, furthermore, is the fact that the average age of an Isolde is 76 years.
When I was little, I couldn’t ultimately decide whether I liked my name or not. On some days, I enjoyed being the only one, and not joining the list of Katherinas in my class (four in fifth grade). On other days, my name felt like the starting point of being seen as weird, unusual.
To be fair, it wasn’t just the name. It was also the fact that my parents weren’t particularly keen on Wagner (though my dad was, a little), although they did like opera in general. It happened that I fell in love with the world of opera. At six years old, I couldn’t understand why not everyone shared my passion for opera and classical music. Evidently, some pedagogical experiments turn out quite successful!
For me, opera was the most exciting thing in the world—not just the events on stage, the fights, the deaths (mostly of women, though), and the love affairs (how much of this I understood as a child is questionable), but also the experience of going to the opera itself. It meant dressing up nicely and being surrounded by people who shared the same passion. After seeing Turandot, an opera by Puccini, for the first time, I was convinced that everyone would realize how heavenly opera is after watching it. I even volunteered to give a presentation in school to share my enthusiasm. Unfortunately, it didn’t seem to convince everyone—or rather, anyone.
In a way, having the name Isolde fit my personality. Would I have become an opera fan without being named Isolde? With the same parents—probably. But having the name Isolde made me embrace this identity. In elementary school, some boys called me “Mozart girl”—not as a compliment, though. It was actually part of a bullying strategy. But since I was perfectly happy being a “Mozart girl,” it didn’t bother me too much.
My relationship with my name changed over time. When I was a teenager, I longed to belong. I wanted to fit in, at least a little, with groups of people my age. I didn’t always want to be the girl with unusual interests and an unusual name. On top of that, I felt very old—not just because of my interests, but also because “Isolde” seemed heavy. Maybe it was the Wagner association, or the fact that people usually connected my name with old or deceased people.
For a while, I considered changing my name to “Isolda.” At the time, it felt like a younger, lighter version of Isolde—less heavy and a bit more playful. Around the same time, though, I was given a nickname. People started calling me “Isi” (pronounced like “easy”), and I liked it. It sounded youthful, and using nicknames felt like something friends would do. When classmates I thought didn’t like me began calling me “Isi,” I felt more accepted, almost popular. Just as understanding inside jokes can create a sense of belonging, being “Isi” felt like having an insider name—like I was part of a group, something I had been longing for. After that, renaming myself to “Isolda” didn’t feel necessary anymore.
Over time, as I grew older, people my age became more accepting of unusual interests. In the higher grades, it was almost cool not to fit in so seamlessly. I might still have been seen as the weird one by some, but others appreciated that I didn’t try to blend in. I grew to like being Isolde because I realized I truly was an Isolde. I don’t want to sound like a “pick me” girl, saying, “I’m not like other girls”—I don’t mean it that way. It was more about realizing that I would probably never have very mainstream interests, and it felt fitting not to have a mainstream name either. However, I would soon give myself another name, though I didn’t know it yet in school.
At 21, I went to the U.S. to study abroad for a year. A few weeks before my flight, I decided to adopt another name. I was already annoyed at the thought of having to explain the pronunciation every time, only for people to still get it wrong (which, as it turned out, they did). So, I decided to call myself “Sally.” I didn’t want to stick with Isi, pronounced “easy,” my usual nickname. Who wants to be associated only with that adjective? And with some imagination, you could stretch “Isolde” into “Solly” (don’t ever call me that), which isn’t far from “Sally.” Alternatively, I could have justified it with my last name, “Sellin.” Sally could be seen as a kind of short form.
In the U.S., I felt quite comfortable not having to explain myself every time. I started to respond when someone called out for Sally. I got used to giving “Sally” when asked for my name at Starbucks. But even after six months, it didn’t feel completely natural.
After I returned from the U.S., I started my Master’s in Oxford. For a moment, I considered being Sally again, after having reverted to Isolde in Germany. But I had left my “Sally” persona behind in the U.S.. I wanted to start my time at Oxford as Isolde. After just a few days, meeting all the other international students, I wasn’t embarrassed anymore to explain my name. I wasn’t the only one spelling their own name out, repeating the pronunciation slowly and often.
And after a couple of weeks, something truly extraordinary happened. In the chapel choir of my college, I sat next to a girl from the UK who asked what my name was. I said, “Isolde,” already inhaling to start explaining how to pronounce it. But I didn’t need to. She was amazed—but not in the usual way, saying, “Wow, I’ve never met someone with that name.” Instead, she said, “No way, that’s my sister’s name!”
It was even her younger sister. I couldn’t believe it. A relative—alive and well—shared my name. How peculiar that I had to go all the way to the UK to meet a relative of an Isolde who is from my generation.
Nowadays, I like my name; I truly do. Having it as a kid wasn’t always fun, I’m not going to lie. But I think I’d be a different person today with another name. Or maybe I’d be exactly the same girl if my name were Anna. Who knows? But I probably would’ve gone through different experiences—different, or rather no, discussions about Wagner, and why I love opera, but don’t enjoy five-hour-long Wagner operas.
The moment I truly found peace with my name was when I looked up its meaning one day. I expected it to be something like “princess” or “beauty,” something connected to the saga of Tristan & Isolde, where Isolde is an Irish princess who falls in love with Tristan, who, of course, is from an enemy tribe. But not quite. The meaning is “iron ruler” or, in some translations, “iron fighter.” My name is unique, and so is its meaning. At this point, I’m really owning it because I simply cannot be anyone but an Isolde.