There is power in a name.
In African cosmologies, names are not just identifiers. They are anchors. Maps. Memory keepers. They tether us to our ancestry and offer clues about the spirit with which we were born. A name, when chosen with intention, is an invocation. It holds your story even before you fully understand what that story will become.
A name is not just a word. It is prophecy. A prayer. A seed that carries the story of where you come from, and whispers of where you might be going. For the longest time, I lived under the name Lerato — a beautiful name meaning “love.” And indeed, love shaped much of my childhood: the longing for it, the confusion of it, the ache and hunger and glimmers of its grace.
It is a beautiful name, tender and soft. And in many ways, it was fitting. I was a deeply feeling child. Quietly observant. Always seeking connection, safety, and belonging. I wore that name like a second skin — sometimes too tightly. Because while I was named Love, I often struggled to feel truly seen, truly chosen. There was always a sense that I had to earn love. Perform it. Chase it. Be it.
Lerato was laughter in the dark, and a wild, wild heart. She held things together with quiet courage, even when the world felt too loud and chaotic to make sense of. She endured. She adapted. She learned how to carry others even when her own arms trembled under the weight. I honour her now, because she made it possible for me to become who I am.
Somewhere along the journey, Lerato no longer fit. Not because love had run out, but because I had grown. I needed a name that echoed my becoming. A name that could hold all my edges, my wisdom, my fire, and my softness too.
Over the years, I built my identity around being what others needed: the good girl, the strong one, the fixer, the peacemaker. But beneath the surface, a different self was stirring — one that craved authenticity over approval, and truth over comfort.
As I grew older and more introspective, I began to question: Who am I when I am not trying to be who they want me to be? What if my name — this symbol of love — had become a container too small for my spirit?
That’s when Bohlale began to whisper to me.
Bohlale means wisdom.
And in many ways, it was the name that had been waiting for me all along.
Choosing this name; becoming this name; was not about erasing my past. It was about reclaiming my voice. It was about honouring the girl I was while stepping more fully into the woman I am becoming. A woman who has wrestled with grief and found grace. Who has learned to speak gently to her scars. Who dances between spirit and soil, poetry and power, softness and strength.
This is not the kind of wisdom that comes from textbooks or titles. It is ancestral wisdom. The kind passed down through dreams, through bones, through firelight stories and the sacred silence of knowing. It is the kind of wisdom that requires you to live deeply and honestly, to cry, to break, to rebuild.
Choosing the name Bohlale was not an erasure of Lerato. It was an evolution. A homecoming. A reclaiming.
It was the moment I began to write a new chapter in my life, one authored by intuition, guided by spirit, and rooted in purpose. It marked the point when I stopped trying to fit and began to belong. First, to myself. Then, to the broader calling on my life.
Bohlale is not just a name.
It is a way of walking through the world.
It reminds me to trust the knowing deep inside.
To honour the stories passed down through my bloodline.
To live with intention.
To speak with clarity.
To teach, to guide, to love, not from performance, but from presence.
With Bohlale, I gave myself permission to hold complexity. To be both gentle and powerful. Both rooted and free. Both healer and seeker. I began to understand that names are not just what we are called, they are how we rise.
Today, when I introduce myself as Bohlale, I do so with reverence. Because this name speaks to who I am becoming: a woman devoted to truth, creativity, healing, and wholeness. A woman who listens deeply. Who leads gently. Who is committed to walking in purpose, even when the path is uncertain.
It’s not just about the name itself, but what it unlocked in me.
Through Lammas Online, I share pieces of my story not because I have all the answers, but because I believe in the power of shared becoming. I believe that our names carry power. And I believe that when we begin to call ourselves by our truest names, not the ones the world gave us, but the ones our soul recognizes, something begins to shift.
I write to honour that journey, not just my own, but the collective one we’re all on. The becoming. The shedding. The remembering. I believe our names, our words, our stories are sacred. And I hope that in reading mine, you’re reminded of your own.
Because we are all named for something.
Something our soul came here to do.
And when we finally answer to that call
that’s when the real becoming begins.
This is my becoming.
This is Bohlale.
