Why always… Christopher

Why this title matters

The title of this book, Always Christopher, Never Chris, is more than a phrase. It is a declaration. It is a boundary. It is a story of identity reclaimed and a brand built with intention. For me, this title represents clarity and belonging. It signals how I choose to be present in the world: fully, authentically, and unapologetically.

Names are powerful. History, meaning, and identity live inside them. They tell stories about who we are and who we are becoming. This opening chapter is about my journey with a name that most people shorten without a second thought. It is about why I chose to embrace the full version, and what that choice taught me about leadership, inclusion, and being known by my own name.

The journey of the name

The power of childhood names

Like many people named Christopher, I grew up answering to Chris. It was casual, familiar, and easy. My parents, family, and friends all called me Chris. That was the norm, until my mom needed my full attention.

My mom had a system, and she still does. It started with “Chris.” If that did not work, she escalated to “Christopher.” Then came “Christopher Allan.” And if I heard “Christopher Allan Bylone,” I knew I had about three seconds to get in front of her. That was the signal: drop everything and move.

Here is the twist. I come from a Catholic family, and for my confirmation, I chose the name Anthony in honor of Saint Anthony. So, when I was really in trouble, the full name rolled out: “Christopher Allan Anthony Bylone.” Picture it. My mom standing firm, voice steady, eyes locked in, calling out every syllable with purpose. That name was not just a string of words. It was a summons. A moment of reckoning.

Over time, this naming system became more than a disciplinary tool. It became part of my identity. Each version of my name did a different job, in a different tone, at a different depth of meaning. It taught me that names have power, not just in how others use them, though in how we choose to claim them for ourselves.

Origins and intent

To understand how I came to embrace the name Christopher, we must go back to July 23, 1981, the day I was born. My mom wanted to name me after my dad, Allan. She imagined a legacy, a connection. My dad, however, was not keen on the idea of having a junior. For his own reasons, he preferred something different. So, they compromised: I would be named Christopher.

And in 1981, Christopher was the second-most popular name for boys. Go figure.

The story did not end there. My mom has always been a devoted Winnie-the-Pooh fan, and she adored Christopher Robin. She dreamed of naming me Christopher Robin Bylone. Somehow, my mom knew I would grow into the values he shows the people around him: open-hearted, imaginative, kind, and full of wonder. There is a quiet wisdom in him too, the kind that steadies everyone else. However, she worried that “Robin” might invite teasing, because it was seen as gender-neutral or less common for boys at the time. I joke with her now: “Little did you know that would not have stopped the teasing anyway.”

So, they landed on Christopher Allan Bylone. My middle name honors my dad, even if his first name was not mine. Growing up, everyone called me Chris. It was normal, expected. However, because Christopher was such a popular name, I often found myself in classrooms with multiple Chrises. And for some reason, I was always the one who volunteered to go by Christopher. Maybe it was the uniqueness. Maybe it was the rhythm of the name. Maybe it was something deeper I did not yet understand.

Over time, Christopher became the name I used in formal settings: school, work, introductions. Chris remained the shorthand for family and close friends. However, even then, something about the full name was more aligned with who I was becoming. It was not just about syllables or popularity. It was about identity. About choosing to be fully myself. About honoring the name my parents gave me, and the story behind it.

Identity and belonging

Voice and misgendering

When I was young, my voice was high-pitched, so much so that in eighth grade, I was still singing soprano. I was not even a tenor yet. In choir, I was placed in the soprano section, which led to some interesting dynamics. I could sing Christine Daaé’s part from The Phantom of the Opera with clarity and ease. Some of the girls were not thrilled about that. And honestly? I kind of loved it.

That moment says a lot about who I am. I have never been one to fit neatly into expectations, especially those tied to identity. I break molds. I challenge assumptions. I am myself out loud, even when it surprises people.

However, this came with a cost. Back in the days before cell phones, people had to call you on a landline. If my parents were not home, I would answer and take a message. The problem? I was forgetful. Still am. My memory is basically Dory-level and is not built for that kind of relay work. So, when people followed up and asked, “Did you get my message?” my parents would say, “No.” And the caller would respond, “Well, we told your daughter.” To which my parents would reply, “You were not speaking with our daughter, you were speaking with our son.”

This happened often. My voice did not match people’s expectations, and they made assumptions. Those assumptions did not stop in childhood. Even as I entered adulthood and the professional world, people continued to misgender me based on my voice. This was still before video conferencing became a thing. They could not see me, so they relied on vocal cues, and those cues did not align with their assumptions about gender.

I want to pause here, because this is not only my story.

Voice-based misgendering is something transgender and non-binary people navigate every single day, often with stakes far higher than mine. People whose accents or vocal registers do not fit dominant expectations meet the same assumptions, the same default to whatever the listener decides is most likely. My experience gave me a window into that world. It did not give me the whole of it. What I know is this. When a person’s voice becomes the basis for erasing who they are, that is not a communication problem. That is a systems problem. The burden of correction should not fall on the person being misread. The world, its organizations, its institutions, its everyday interactions, needs to be designed to ask rather than assume.

Eventually, I realized I needed a way to assert my identity more clearly. That is when I began using Christopher. Intentionally. Consistently. It helped. People associated the name Christopher with a male identity, and I was misgendered less often. I started answering the phone with, “Hello, this is Christopher.” I signed all my emails as Christopher. I asked people to refer to me that way.

I want to be precise about what that was. It worked, and it was a workaround. I built a system to do the work the world should have been doing, and I ran it myself: every phone call, every signature, every introduction.

And the name is only half of why it eased. The other half arrived without me. Calls started coming with video, and people could see me while they heard me. Neither half was the world deciding to ask rather than assume. One was a technology. The other was me, doing extra work on my own behalf for years. The correction still happens. It happens less, because I made myself easier to place, and because a camera did what a question should have done. That is not the same thing as being met.

Even in social settings, I now use Christopher. My family and a few close friends still call me Chris. It is part of our shared history and how they get my attention. It is a name layered with meaning.

Choosing Christopher was not just about reducing misgendering. It was about entering a room as myself and saying, “I belong here, just as I am.” That is a leadership act. It models authenticity and inclusion for everyone else in the room.

Belonging does not happen by itself. It is designed, through intentional actions, exactly like this one.

From correction to brand

The conference room, and the question that came months later

So why am I telling this story, about how I came to embrace the name Christopher? Because it is not just personal. It is professional. And it is strategic.

I owe a significant thank you to my friend John Ferguson. He is an HR executive. In the summer of 2024, the two of us were on a panel at an HR conference, in a room of senior HR executives. During the Q&A, someone asked a question and addressed it to “Chris.”

When I responded, I took the opportunity to clarify, not just for that person, though for the room.

“I would love to answer your question,” I said. “Though first, I would like to remind everyone that my name is Christopher, not Chris.”

The room responded with applause and laughter. People came up to me afterward, saying how powerful and brave it was to assert my name in that moment. It also brought me pride, clarity, and affirmation.

The real shift, however, came months later, in a private conversation with John. This conversation is being shared with his permission. He asked me, “How did you get to the place of wanting to be called Christopher?”

I shared the story of how I was misgendered as a child because of my voice, and how I wanted a way to signal my identity clearly from the beginning. What surprised me was that John, someone I have had countless deep conversations with, was asking this now. So, I asked, “Why are you bringing this up?”

His response changed everything.

He said, “When you were on that stage, you had power. The room was full of senior executives, so the dynamic was relatively balanced. However, one day, you will be speaking to an audience of junior professionals. They might call you Chris. And in that moment, you will need a way to assert your name that is clear, confident, and kind.”

He continued, “You want to stand up for yourself, yes. However, you also want to make sure people know they are valued, not embarrassed. You need a way to communicate your identity that invites understanding, not defensiveness.”

Then he said something that stayed with me: “You have already got it. You say, ‘Never Chris.’ That is your brand.”

I laughed. “You are right.”

“Make it your calling card. Put it on mugs. T-shirts. Swag. Own it.”

What John named in that moment was something I had been living without fully understanding. I was no longer just a professional doing the work. I had a platform: one that people listen to, respect, and follow. With that comes responsibility. When I assert my identity, I need to do it in a way that is as empathetic to the other person as it is true to myself. In a room of equals, I can push back directly. In front of an audience that is not my peer, the correction has to arrive differently, so that what people remember is the answer rather than the correction. That conversation was an invitation to lead with intention, not just conviction.

Building the brand

What John handed me in that conversation was not just encouragement. It was a design challenge. If belonging is built through intentional action, then how I introduced myself to the world needed to reflect that. Not just posts, not just podcasts. Something lasting.

I am not a negative person. I do not lead with “never.” I lead with “always.” So the brand had to start there. Always Christopher. The full name. The declaration. Not a reaction, a commitment.

Choosing “always” over “never” is the architecture of this entire book. Always Christopher is not about what I refuse. It is about what I claim.

As I write this, in September 2026, my LinkedIn headline reads: #AlwaysChristopher #NeverChris. It is more than a hashtag. It is a declaration. A brand. A boundary. A welcome.

And it is how I arrived at this book’s title.

What shifts when you claim your name

Since making this declaration publicly, something has moved in the people around me. I see it happen in real time.

People open up about why their own names matter to them. They share how they have never paused to think about being specific and intentional about how they want to be called. I hear a lot of “just call me whatever.” And every time I do, I engage. Because I want to know what a person actually wants to be called. Not what is easiest for me or anyone else. How do you want to be represented in the world?

Your identity matters. Just like mine does. And what I have learned is that we do not just need to respect identity. We need to nurture it.

Names are the first practice. Every time we use the name a person chooses, we are doing something more than being polite. We are telling them: I see you. I know you. You belong here.

The one person who gets to call me Chris

I built a public brand on never Chris. There is one person who calls me Chris anyway, and I let her.

She has been in the social justice movement longer than I have been alive. She would call Thurgood Marshall a close friend, and she mentions it the way other people mention a neighbor. When she addresses me, it is Chris. I have tried to correct her more than once. It never took, and at a certain point I stopped trying.

I want to be honest about what that decision was, because it was a calculation. I weighed what the correction would cost me against what she is to me and to the work, and I decided the correction was not worth it. That is the same calculation this chapter says nobody should have to make. The argument of these pages is that the burden of correction should not fall on the person being misnamed. In this story I am that person, and I kept the burden on purpose.

People notice. I have heard the giggles. I have been asked afterward, more than once, why I let her get away with it, and the question arrives amused and a little scandalized, as though I have broken my own rule in public. I have. There is something else those people are learning in the moment they watch me let it go, which is that correction is optional when the person getting it wrong matters enough. I am the one who taught them that.

Here is what I say when they ask. She is one of the very few people in this world who get to call me Chris.

Both of those things are true at once. The rule is mine, so the exception is mine to make, and a rule I can suspend for one person is a rule I should be able to explain out loud. That is what this is. It is not a model, and it is not the grown-up version of the argument. It is one choice about one person, at a price I am willing to pay, and the reader who would have corrected her is not wrong.

Leadership, accountability, and the systems that must change

Names matter. They are where belonging begins. When we take the time to learn and use someone’s correct name, we demonstrate respect. We signal that they matter. For me, getting someone’s name right is not a courtesy. It is a commitment to inclusion.

As people, we set the tone. We model what respect looks like. We create spaces where people know they are seen and valued. That starts with something as simple and profound as a name.

Individual practice, however, is not enough. Our organizations have to be built to honor how people name themselves. A transgender person who knows their name cannot always change it in law the moment they know it. The rules differ by state, and they move most legislative sessions. The process takes time, money, and access that not everyone has. No system should wait on a legislature to respect who a person is.

The fix is not complicated. A legal name field, and a preferred name field beside it. The preferred name appears wherever people actually interact with each other. That second field serves more people than it is usually built for. It serves anybody whose name is spelled one way on a passport, another way on a license, and a third way in the payroll system. Simple. Human. Non-negotiable.

The same pressure takes another form for people whose given names do not fit Western pronunciation norms, and most of all for people from Asian communities. Many have taken an anglicized name over the years. Not because they wanted one. Because the rooms they entered made it clear, out loud or by implication, that their real name would be too hard, too foreign, too much.

The pattern is easy to picture. A colleague named Xiao becomes Alex. Someone named Nguyen Thi Lan introduces herself as Linda. The original name does not disappear. It retreats. And with it, something of the person retreats too. This is not a small thing. A name is lineage, language, and the full texture of a person’s identity. When we create cultures where people calculate whether their name is too inconvenient to be worth keeping, we are not building belonging. We are building a conditional welcome, one that says: you may enter, provided you make yourself easier for us.

As people, we have to ask ourselves a harder question. What are we actually asking a person to give up when we do not make the effort to learn a name that is unfamiliar to us? The discomfort of mispronunciation is the responsibility of the person mispronouncing, never of the person whose name it is. The standard is not perfection. The standard is genuine effort, consistent practice, and the willingness to ask and be corrected. That is what inclusion looks and sounds like in practice.

I get it wrong too. On my own podcast, in my own studio, I described a guest’s publishing house as a printing company, which is not her name though it is her life’s work, and I said it with the easy confidence of the person running the room. She waited until the recording stopped before she told me, so that the correction would not happen in front of an audience. Then I edited my error out of the file, because the controls were mine. Stay with that for a second. The person who was not wrong managed the moment, and then the evidence of my being wrong disappeared.

So I run a practice rather than a principle. Before I meet somebody, I put their name into a search and find out how it is said. Then I say it out loud until it is mine to say. And when I meet them, I ask anyway. I say the name, then I ask whether I got it right, and I make it easy for them to tell me I did not. If I expect people to get my name right, the least I owe everybody else is the same effort.

Getting this right is not just a matter of courtesy. It is an equity issue. When systems are designed only for people whose identities fit the default, everyone else does the extra work of navigating a world not built for them. That work is real. It accumulates. It exhausts. And it shuts people out of rooms they had every reason to enter. Leaders who are serious about belonging have a responsibility to examine those systems and redesign them: not eventually, now.

I think of myself as a Sage-Rebel: someone who blends wisdom with a willingness to say the hard thing, challenges old ideas with kindness, and creates belonging through real, accountable conversations. The name I chose is both personal and strategic. It is an act of inclusion every single time.

Reflection

The title of this book is a journey: identity, belonging, and leadership. It reminds me that clarity has power. Authenticity draws people in. Inclusion starts on purpose.

This book is a living story, and so is yours.

I want to speak directly to the person reading this who has not yet found their “always.” That is okay. It took me a long time to find mine, and I am still discovering what it means. The journey to claiming your full self is not a race. Some paths move quickly. Others wind, pause, and double back. None of that means you have arrived late or fallen behind. The beauty of the human experience is that we each take our own route. My always is not a benchmark for yours. It is simply mine.

What I hope this chapter gives you is not a destination. It is permission to start asking: what parts of your identity deserve more space, more voice, more visibility?

What name or part of your identity have you reclaimed or redefined? How has it shaped the way you are known?

Consider the labels you have outgrown, the nicknames you have shed, or the titles you have embraced. What do they say about your journey? What do they say about who you are becoming?

Here is your invitation: Reflect. Reclaim. Redefine.

And above all, be your bold, authentic self, whatever that looks like today, tomorrow, and always.

We do not arrive. We evolve.

Updated: 02/21/2026