Why I Legally Changed My Name to Bombdiggity

Yes.

That is what it says on my driver's license.

Bombdiggity.

Not a nickname.

Not a business name.

Not a placeholder.

My actual, legal, government-approved last name.

This is usually the point where people don't believe me.

Which is fair.

Because changing your legal name is surprisingly inconvenient.

It turns out Indiana doesn't have a special process for becoming Bombdiggity.

The state requires the same bureaucratic obstacle course whether you're changing your name to Smith, Johnson, or something that sounds like it escaped from a 1990s middle school playground.

There are forms.

Filing fees.

Waiting periods.

A court date.

And because apparently the government wanted to make absolutely certain I had thought this through, I also had to pay money to publish my intended name change in the newspaper for three consecutive weeks.

That's right.

Before I became Kirsten Bombdiggity, I had to publicly announce my intentions to the citizens of central Indiana.

For twenty-one days.

Which, if nothing else, demonstrates a level of commitment that should probably qualify as a pre-existing condition.

At the time, I worked for a physician education company.

I ran the coaching program.

Oversaw client experience.

Spent my days helping physicians and other high-achieving professionals build lives that felt more sustainable.

Good salary.

Respected role.

Meaningful work.

And despite all of it, I felt completely invisible in my own life.

When I filed for divorce, I had two legal options:

Keep my married name.

Return to my maiden name.

That was it.

But I had already successfully outgrown every previous version of myself.

So after the divorce was finalized, I filed a motion for a legal name change.

My mother was aghast.

"What will I tell my friends at church?"

she asked.

"Does that come up a lot in conversations, Mom?"

I replied.

"The last names of your children?"

The guy I was dating had concerns too.

He worried it would close doors professionally.

The owner of the company where I worked felt the same way.

She thought it might hurt our credibility.

So for the remainder of my tenure with them, I went by Kirsten B.

Legally, I was Bombdiggity.

Professionally, I was an initial.

But every time someone worried about the doors that might close, I found myself asking the same question:

What if it opens others?

At the time, I had no idea how important that question would become.

I wasn't trying to build a brand.

I wasn't plotting some grand reinvention.

I wasn't mapping out a future as an author, speaker, coach, or entrepreneur.

I had no idea that five months later, I'd resign my job and step into entrepreneurship.

I just knew it made me feel alive in a way I had long forgotten was even possible.

So I chose it.

Then I kept choosing it.

Every form.

Every filing fee.

Every newspaper notice.

Every step of the process required me to make the same decision again.

My middle initial is F.

Kirsten F. Bombdiggity.

An F-Bomb.

I have a long and distinguished history of entertaining myself.

But the bigger reason was simpler.

It felt playful.

Fun.

Ridiculous.

And exactly like a name I wanted to grow old with.

Not a name designed to impress people.

A name that made me smile.

Even after all the paperwork.

Even after the court date.

Even after the newspaper notices.

Looking back, it would be tempting to tell a neat little story about how changing my name changed my life.

It didn't.

The name didn't create the courage.

The name required it.

The greatest gift wasn't confidence.

It was clarity.

People tell you a lot about themselves when they encounter a name like Bombdiggity.

Some decide immediately that I'm not their kind of person.

They assume I'm unserious.

Unprofessional.

An under-medicated potato making questionable life choices.

And I'm totally okay with that.

Those aren't my people.

I'm interested in the people who lean in.

The ones who laugh.

The ones who have already decided we'd probably be friends before we've even met.

People generally self-select themselves as interested or not interested in getting to know me before I've spent a single ounce of energy explaining myself.

What a gift.

And a reminder that the people who are meant for us rarely require convincing.

More than two years later, I still smile every time I hear my name called at a restaurant.

For a split second, I think:

"Is that really mine?"

And then I remember.

It is.

I might be the only human on earth named Bombdiggity.

And I do my family name proud.