My name is Sarah, with an "H." An eager Starbucks barista might go the extra mile to ask if my name is written with an "H" or no "H," but many never ask, leaving me to wonder, with agonizing anticipation, how my name will be spelled. Half the time the barista assumes correctly, and half the time she doesn't. And then, there was this one time, when my cup said "Cierra."

Many more have also experienced the "Starbucks Struggle"—Catherines and Katherines; Marks and Marcs; Caitlins and Kaitlyns and Katelyns and others whose names fall subject to variation. Our whole lives, we've had to clarify the spellings of our names to teachers, coaches, camp counselors, cashiers signing us up for rewards programs, and of course, baristas.

But how big a difference does spelling make, exactly? My mom swears she'd never seen "Sarah" spelled without an "H" until after I was born, so she never even considered omitting the letter. Most languages, including Spanish and Italian, drop the "H," but my name originated from the Hebrew meaning for "Princess." Ironically, as a kid, I was always a tom-boy, a hater of all things girly—barbies, makeup, ballet classes, and of course, princesses. As my mother's first-born daughter, I think she might have been a little disappointed, like she jinxed herself by naming me Sarah, Princess.

I always thought "Sara" without an "H" looks more modern, whereas my spelling appears more traditional. Friends of mine have heard me argue in favor of my spelling: "The Bible spells it 'Sarah,' with an 'H,' the way God intends it!" But in all honesty, I'm not so orthodox—maybe the traditional spelling doesn't quite suit me. It has always pained me to listen to the song "Sara" by Fleetwood Mac and remain loyal to the spelling of my name when the iconic goddess Stevie Nicks prefers no "H."

Still, I remain passionately defensive of my preferred spelling (I'm talking to you, Jimmy Fallon— "H"'s are NOT "ew").

Unfortunately, my first name is not the only one which experiences frequent misspelling. My last name is Alessandrini. Daunting, I know: twelve letters, five syllables, one burden on my existence. If you're like me, with a last name derived from Italian, Polish, Russian, or basically any language other than English, it's been entertaining to see, throughout your life, the creative ways in which generically last-named people completely massacre your surname: I've seen Alessandri, a mild offense; but I've also seen Alisondrini, Allisendrini, Alesandroni, Alejandro, Adele Dazeem—the possibilities are endless.

The most common misspelling, by far, is Allessandrini, with two "L"'s instead of one. My high school had my name misspelled wrong in its records for my entire freshman year, so my student email and other important account usernames had to be fixed. For my senior yearbook profile, I wrote "Missing emails from teachers my freshman year because my name was misspelled 'Allessandrini'" as my favorite high school memory. On my last day of senior year, after receiving my yearbook, I opened right to my page. I almost didn't notice, just above the memory, a sadly familiar sight: the misprinted name, Sarah Allessandrini. Irony at its finest.

My dad, who gave my school an earful freshman year after seeing the error, has always been protective of our name's spelling. It's your name, he always stresses, without any further argument, no more specification of importance needed, other than the simple fact it is my name. Now that I'm entering the world of writing and publishing, I understand more what he means. While Sarah with an "H" might not suit my personality, and the famous Tonight Show host has deemed the seventh letter of the English alphabet "ew," I will continue to defend my preferred spelling, just as anyone else who knows the "Starbucks Struggle" should. After all, it's your name.

As much as I detest seeing my last name misspelled, I've learned to find humor in my situation. I've grown used to seeing peoples' reactions when I say my last name aloud—Alessandrini. Their eyes widen like I just slapped them straight across the face. Sorry, what? I repeat it slowly, sounding out each syllable—AL-ES-SAN-DRI-NI. No, we just wanted your last name, is a common response. That is my last name, I say to the American Eagle Cashier, taking down my name for a rewards program. Oh, she says. I spell it out for her—A L E S S A N D R I N I. Okay, and your first name?

Sarah, I say, with an "H."