​​I changed my name and this is why

“Já se jmenuju Vlasta,” I used to say to my mother. Only to change my mind a few weeks later and tell my family to call me Šárka.

When deciding on my name in 1986 and living behind the Iron Curtain, my parents wanted to give me an international name. They had high hopes that I would make it “out.”

They wanted to explore what was on the other side of that wall and wanted to give me an easy start if I ever had the chance to fulfill their dreams. And so they chose Monika.

Given Czech declension has seven cases and with it the vocative case too, it wasn’t like my name was set in stone. They called me Moni, Moniko, Mončo. Nika occasionally. And so I never quite got too attached to my given name. 

And then, a person doesn’t just have a given name. There’s also the surname. 

According to Wikipedia: “A surname, family name, or last name is the mostly hereditary portion of one’s personal name that indicates one’s family.” 

And to a degree, this is true. When a person stays in the community they were born into, a surname remains the legacy and the compilation of one’s family’s reputation – which of course can also be a burden. However, once one branches out of that community, that village, let alone their native country, suddenly the weight of additional meanings, stereotypes, and even prejudices follows. 

Monika Kaňoková was my name. 

In my new context of living in Austria, that name was synonymous with being a migrant child from a poor country. Worse, it was synonymous with a child that didn’t speak the language. A child of someone who “steals jobs,” “steals benefits.” And a name no one knew how to pronounce, and so naturally, I turned it into Monika Kanokova. The origin became a little less obvious, yet remained foreign. And with it, I did too. 

A year or two later, I was still that migrant child. While I spoke the language grammatically correct, my accent remained and with it the prejudices. Especially when I had to pull out my passport.

Eventually, I figured out the accent. My earliest friends liked it. To them, it was charming.

With my new superpower of having adapted the Viennese accent, which honestly serves me really well to this day, my foreign surname remained the last legacy of being a migrant child. 

I still felt like I constantly had to prove myself though.

Not feeling accepted by just being present but having to constantly prove one’s worth is tiring. Obviously, I am aware that, as a white cis-woman, I have a small understanding of what it means to not have these average traits in Central Europe. But at least, let me be the one telling you, it’s horrible. It costs energy to constantly be on one’s toes to yet again show the world one is worthy of respect. And so, given my young age and lack of any sort of professionally acknowledged legacy, I kept climbing the academic ladder. To be frank here, I only decided on doing a one-year master’s degree program for the title, not necessarily because it would move me forward. It felt like a plaster that would at least allow me to take steps without prejudice, and I’m happy to report – with one laughing and one crying eye – that that’s exactly what it did. 

Having acquired a title I could finally attach to my name at the age of 26, I didn’t have to prove my intelligence to people just because I had a foreign name. 

Just thinking back on this time the unpleasant feeling of not belonging creeps back in. I don’t miss it. 

After my studies and once I went freelance, I worked tirelessly to build up a good reputation, to no longer have my name viewed as the name of a foreign migrant woman, but instead someone who creates and says interesting things. I built an online reputation that would open doors. I wrote three books and even gave a TEDx talk. 

Looking back, I must say that if people had prejudices, I no longer felt them. At that time, the world was my oyster. I traveled. I met people. It was all fun and games. 

The peak of this lifestyle and the freedom I felt with my name was around 2015 to 2017 and with it the time I spent working on launching Kickstarter in Germany and Austria.

As much as I loved what I did and all the opportunities and especially the chance to travel like my parents had always dreamed of, I definitely eventually overdid it and burned out. 

What followed was a time of reflection about my choices, my values, my lifestyle, my surroundings. 

During this time, I decided that I no longer had to fight to feel like I belonged.

I realized that I’m also okay with being the different one and at times the difficult person. 

That realization allowed me to close my own value action gap in many ways. 

I stopped eating animal products. 

Reduced flying to an absolute minimum (compared to flying several times a week and across the world multiple times a year). 

It quickly escalated: I became interested in a low-waste lifestyle and generally widened my horizons by looking into alternative lifestyles and cultures. 

During this time, I also moved back to Berlin – a city that allows everyone to be and do whatever they want to, which is freeing in and of itself already.

No longer fighting to fit in, I finally found the time and energy to look into who I really wanted to become when considering my values and not just societal expectations. 

My name was so loaded with milestones and accomplishments. This move gave me a break, to not to have to pursue any of that any further. It felt freeing. 

Then COVID happened and the world sort of retreated into a more private space. 

I myself was busy making the most of those quiet years. 

I started a company – and with it I began building an entity that wouldn’t slam a foreign name at people within the first few moments of meeting. I no longer had to say, “Hi, I’m Monika Kanokova.” I could finally say: “I’m Monika from NEW STANDARD.S.”

I got pregnant. 

Got married. And with this  private decision I had the possibility of changing my name. 

Taking on this new surname also meant I’d be able to step into a space of belonging. A space of belonging to a family.

But it also meant I could start with a blank sheet. 

There was no Monika van Olst yet. 

But did I still want to go by Monika? A name I hadn’t liked since I was a little child? 

“Not really,” I heard my mind say loud and clearly. 

My grandmother used to say Nika from time to time. She even made up a jingle that I unfortunately no longer recall, but I still remember her singing Nika in a fun tune. 

Nika van Olst. 

Well now, that sounded like the sort of blank sheet of paper I was curious to explore. 

Who was this Nika van Olst? 

What did she do? 

What did she think about? 

And what would she make of a life starting with a blank sheet of paper? 

So that’s where we are now and where I’ve been since early 2022. 

I’m a woman with a rich backstory, the knowledge of several languages, now with a husband and, as of 2024, two children. 

But what else is there to say about this woman? 

I now have a whole lifetime ahead of me where I can explore exactly that and I’d love having you as part of this journey.

So…let’s find out together. 

P.S. While my official name is Monika van Olst, I go by Nika van Olst day to day.