從李姿錦到 Lilja

My Chinese name is Li Zi-Jin. My father told me he chose it himself.

Li is one of the most common surnames¹ in Taiwan—you can find people who share it everywhere you go. But as a child, I felt a quiet pride in having that name, because the great Tang Dynasty poet Li Bai shared it too. That small connection gave me a sense of belonging² I hadn't expected.

As for Zi-Jin, my father chose each character with care. Zi (姿) contains the elements for "second" and "woman," symbolizing³ that I was his second daughter. Jin (錦) is made up of "gold" and "silk"—a wish for a life of richness and beauty. Even as a little girl, I felt the weight of those hopes tucked inside my name.

In primary school, my name became a source of teasing. Classmates discovered that "Li Zi-Jin" sounded like "ni zi ji"—"yourself" in Mandarin—and thought it was hilarious. I laughed along, but quietly felt embarrassed. The last character, Jin (錦, meaning "brocade"), was often mispronounced as Mian (綿, meaning "cotton")—so to avoid the confusion, I started letting teachers and strangers call me Zi-Mian instead.

Looking back, I don't think those jokes were meant to be cruel. But that planted a seed in me about^B what a name really means.

In fifth grade, I got my first nickname⁵: Spider. It started because classmates liked to take the last character of someone's name and replace it with zhū (豬), the word for "pig." Zi-Zhu (姿豬) sounded almost identical to Zhi-Zhu (蜘蛛)—the Mandarin word for "spider." My best friend Ya-Shi even designed a signature for me: an oval smiley face with a bow, and eight legs beneath it. We drew it on each other's cards like a secret language only we understood.

After high school, I left Kaohsiung and moved north to Fu Jen Catholic University in Taipei. My world changed completely. I fell in love with fashion and makeup, taking inspiration from the Japanese magazine Cawaii—heavy eyeliner, bleached hair, mini skirts. Some Taipei classmates met it with ridicule⁶, calling me Xiao Bai He (小百合, meaning "little lily" in Chinese), insinuating I looked like a hostess girl.

Funny thing was—I didn't mind at all. In fact, I^C liked the sound of it. Looking back, that experience taught me something I still carry: I don't need to shrink myself to fit other people's expectations. I'd rather live authentically⁸ as the version of myself I actually like.

My first English name was Josephine, given to me by my first English teacher. I quickly decided it was too long and switched to Joyce. I used to be called^A Joyce, until I started teaching English myself and finally chose the name I've kept ever since: Lily.

I loved its simplicity and softness. And in some small way, it echoed that old nickname—Xiao Bai He (小百合), "little lily"—but this time, on my own terms.

After my engagement, I took my fiancé's surname and became Lily Wong. I kept the name even after the divorce—not out of sentimentality, but because by then it had become mine. It wasn't just about^D a relationship. It was a way to^D redefine⁷ who I was.

As I traveled the world, fewer and fewer people called me by my Chinese name. For most of my international friends, it was simply too difficult to pronounce. Lily became the more natural way to know me.

Today, Lily is woven into everything I do—it's part of my personal brand, Fly with Lily.

Recently, I've been opening my heart again to the possibility of a new relationship. And in doing so, I've noticed patterns rising to the surface—old beliefs about love, about connection, about who I am in relationship with others. They're still there, quietly shaping how I move through the world.

It made me think of the time I worked in Iceland. A friend there started calling me Lilja—the Icelandic word for Lily.

Something about that name felt different. It wasn't just soft and gentle anymore. It carried something from the north—the resilience of a Viking woman, quiet strength, deep independence.

So in 2026, I began asking the people around me to call me Lilja too. It isn't just a new name. It feels like a declaration: I want to leave certain parts of the past behind—not erase them, but carry them differently. To move forward as a newer, fuller version of myself.

I'm still learning how to find the balance between softness and strength, between love and freedom, between who I was and who I'm becoming.

From^E Li Zi-Jin to^E Lily Wong, and now^E to Lilja—I've come to understand that a name is never just a name.

It is a chapter of life. A shift in identity⁴. Proof of the choices we make about who we want to be.

Whatever name I carry in the future, I hope it continues to hold the values I want to live by: love, gratitude, freedom, curiosity, and abundance.