In 1987, my father was newly 30, and in the ripe of his moderate obsession with philosopher and writer Ayn Rand. I was baby number three, and in the dead of winter, just six days before Christmas in a town outside Toronto, my father would insist on a little spelling homage in my name. Jillanna, how it is to be said, would be come Jillayna.
That “y,” that little piece of ethical altruism splashed into my name would prove to set the stage for my future. What’s in a name? It turns out, a hell of a lot.