Throughout my life, I was always that one student whose name made teachers pause during roll call. You could almost hear the question mark at the end of it. In cafes and stores, employees would glance at my order and assume I was a guy. It became a pattern I learned to expect—yet every time, it still made me wonder what made my two-syllable name so puzzling.
But as I’ve grown, I’ve learned to smile about it—and even embrace it.
After all, even before I was born, my mom’s doctor believed I was going to be a boy. It only made sense that my name would keep a bit of mystery, even now. I see it now as a reminder of God’s perfect plan, weaving together a life and identity even before I took my first breath.
My full first name is Henritz Joy.
It’s not a combination you hear every day—and it carries more meaning than most people realize. A few days after I was born, my godmother gave me my name. Since my parents had prepared mostly boy names, they blended their own: Henry and Joy. It’s a beautiful reflection of their love and the foundation of who I am—but I can’t help but think there’s more to it. God’s hand was guiding them all along.
Growing up, I never disliked my name. I never asked to change it. Were there moments when it felt a little frustrating correcting people? Sure. But more than anything, it always reminded me that my name is a piece of my parents’ story—a little thread stitched from love, hope, and faith long before I even entered the world.
I remember the first time someone gave me a nickname. I was probably nine or ten years old, and a childhood friend blurted it out so casually that it took me a moment to even respond.
Ritz. Simple. Obvious. But somehow, it felt like a badge I hadn’t known I was waiting for.
Since then, a few other names have followed: Ritzy, Joy, Joyce (a nickname given by a landlord that I still use sometimes when ordering coffee), and even Henry (a playful tease from a friend that somehow stuck). There’s also Chicken-Soft drink, a silly inside joke that still makes me laugh whenever I hear it. Somewhere along the way, I even coined my own nickname—Ritzbitzcookie—because if you’re going to embrace something, you might as well make it sweet.
Most people still call me Henritz, though, and that’s how I usually introduce myself. It wasn’t until college that I started using my full first name more openly. Maybe part of me wanted people to realize this name belonged to a feminine person. Or maybe I just finally stepped fully into it, embracing the woman God intended me to be.
Now, I use it for my brand, my writing, my everyday life—and I’m proud of it.
There’s something about having a unique name that follows you everywhere. It makes it nearly impossible to stay unnoticed. If someone calls out “Henritz” across a room, chances are, I’m the only one turning around.
That’s the little story behind my name.
A few people over the years have asked me where it came from, and I thought today felt like a good day to finally share it with you.
I love my name. I wouldn’t change it for anything. It’s not just what people call me—it’s a part of who I am. It’s my story stitched into two small words, carrying a love that began long before I even knew it. And I know that God’s hand was in every part of it, from the first breath I took to every step I’ve taken since.
“But now, this is what the Lord says— he who created you, Jacob, he who formed you, Israel: ‘Do not fear, for I have redeemed you; I have summoned you by name; you are mine.’” -Isaiah 43:1 (NIV)
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Does your name have a special meaning or story behind it? I’d love to hear about it!
