There are some questions that make you pause—not because they’re hard, but because they open a door inside you that you hadn’t dared to open all the way before. This is one of those questions for me.
“If you could have something named after you, what would it be?” It was a random writing prompt that showed up in my inbox today.
I didn’t have to think long. I felt it in my chest before the words made it to my tongue and then to my computer. I would want a library—but not just any library. Not a building full of neatly stacked shelves where silence weighs more than wisdom. I’m talking about a living, breathing space that exists at the intersection of courage, curiosity, and collective healing. A place—virtual and physical—that’s named after me not because I need the recognition, but because I need the mission to matter long after I’m gone.
So here it is: I would want The Stigma Archive: A Living Library for Liberation—A Map to Becoming. dedicated entirely to understanding, dismantling, and ultimately healing from the many layered, heavy, and often invisible stigmas that weigh down so many lives. And I’d want my name quietly attached—maybe in a corner of the cornerstone or woven into the founding statement—because it would be a reflection of my deepest work: making the uncomfortable visible, and turning pain into purpose.
The Weight of Stigma
Stigma is a thief. It steals possibility. It strips dignity. It lives in silence, in shadows, and in side-eyes that pretend to look past you but actually drill straight through you. I know this thief intimately. I know what it’s like to be underestimated, avoided, or spoken about instead of spoken with. And more than that—I know how it feels to internalize it, to carry shame that wasn’t mine to begin with.
Stigma is the sidekick of shame, the quiet twin of trauma, and the scaffolding that props up entire systems of exclusion.
And here’s the thing: stigma rarely travels alone. It’s intersectional, like smoke finding every crack in a wall. You can be stigmatized for your body, your mind, your past, your zip code, your identity, your silence, your speech, your truth. And often, it’s the combination of stigmas that suffocate people into isolation.
If You Could Have Something Named After You, What Would It Be?
— A Library of Liberation and Light – A Map to Becoming
So why a library?
Because stigma thrives in ignorance. And libraries—at least the kind I dream of—are weapons of mass illumination.
What This Library Would Hold
This wouldn’t be a sterile academic archive curated for elites in cardigans clutching degrees and sipping self-satisfaction. This would be a living archive. A sacred place of stories. Of data. Of dreams. Of unflinching truth-telling. This would be a place where you could walk in carrying shame and walk out carrying understanding.
Every wing of the library would be shaped by a different stigma. Mental illness. Incarceration. Neurodivergence. Sex work. Poverty. Addiction. Disability. Sexuality. Chronic illness. Race. Gender. Aging. Grief. HIV. Autism. Body size. Immigration status. And all the overlapping identities between them.
But rather than just defining stigma, this place would map its causes and effects. How stigma affects health outcomes. Job access. Educational attainment. Self-worth. Legal vulnerability. Romantic relationships. Dreams deferred. It would look at how society weaponizes stigma as a control mechanism—and how individuals internalize it to the point of self-erasure.
There would be memoirs, policy briefs, zines, and recorded oral histories. Peer-reviewed journals and graffiti. Academic theses and slam poetry. Art installations next to court transcripts. Songs of resistance echoing beside social science.
Knowledge in every language—both literal and figurative.
And yes, data too. Not cold data—but human data. Ethnographies. Qualitative research. Stories and statistics sitting side-by-side, daring each other to be more truthful.
Who This Library Would Serve
This library would not be a place you visit once. It would be a place you return to when you’re tired of pretending. When you’re ready to ask real questions. When you want to look someone else in the eyes and say, “Me too.”
It would serve:
- Survivors of stigma, who need a place to remember that they’re not broken, just burdened by bullshit.
- Students and researchers, who are hungry for truth beyond the polished pages of approved narratives.
- Family members, trying to love someone better but not sure how.
- Activists and advocates, who need evidence, language, and hope to keep going.
- Therapists and counselors, who want deeper tools and context.
- Policymakers, if they’re brave enough to come, to see what their decisions actually do to people on the margins.
But most importantly, it would serve those who haven’t yet found the words for their wounds. The ones still sitting in the shadows thinking they’re alone. They’d walk into the library and see themselves reflected. And instead of shame, they’d find solidarity.
The Atmosphere and Aesthetic
Imagine this: the library smells like sage and old paper. It has soft corners with beanbags and bright corners with coffee. Some rooms are quiet, sacred like a church. Others hum with laughter and debate. There are confession booths where you don’t confess sins but speak secrets. There’s a garden outside where you bury your shame like compost and watch something bloom in its place.
There’s no shushing here. Just gentle reminders to make space for each other’s stories.
And the whole thing would be free. Because information should be a human right, not a privilege. And because healing requires access.
A Naming That Means Something
Having this library named after me wouldn’t be about ego. It would be about continuity. About legacy. About creating a counter-narrative in a world where people with stigmatized identities are more likely to be reduced to footnotes or cautionary tales than named as founders of anything.
It would be about putting a stake in the ground and saying:
“Someone who was told they didn’t belong helped build a home for everyone who’s ever felt the same.”
That’s what I want my name to mean—not accolades, but access. Not power, but permission. Permission to feel, to question, to unlearn, to belong. I want to offer that to people the way it was offered to me—through real, messy, loving community and through the sharp, clear blade of truth.
The Ripple Effect
Naming something isn’t just about legacy. It’s about ripple. If my name is attached to this library, then every child who walks in and sees their struggle on the shelves will know: “Someone before me saw this. Someone before me named it. Someone before me fought for this to be here.”
They’ll be able to say, “If they mattered enough to have this named after them, maybe I matter too.”
Maybe they’ll go on to build their own spaces. Maybe they’ll grow up to name something after someone else—a mother, a mentor, a friend who never gave up on them. That’s how stigma ends: one story at a time, one name reclaimed at a time.
Final Word: A Birthday Candle I Can’t Blow Out
If I’m being real, I know I won’t live forever. And that’s okay. But if I could leave one permanent, burning light in this world, I’d want it to be this library. This library whispers to the weary and shouts with the survivors. This library welcomes you whether you’re wearing shame or shedding it.
And maybe one day, a kid will walk past the sign that bears my name, wander inside, and for the first time in their life, see their story not as something to hide—but something to hold.
That’s what I want named after me.
Not a statue. Not a street. But a space where the weight comes off your chest.
Where the silence ends.
Where the healing begins.
Let them say I built a home for the heavy-hearted.
Let them say I turned stigma into soil—and planted something real.
Let them say I helped others with becoming!
What about you? What would you like to be named after you? Please share in the comments below!
