I am Wolf - On Names and Archetypes

For those of you who already know me, seeing Wolf as my first name may come as a surprise. I’m not sharing this story to explain or justify the change, but to offer experience—maybe even permission—for those who feel a quiet discomfort with the name they were given.

The name Wolf has called to me for as long as I can remember. As a child, I was drawn to wolves—their beauty, their quiet strength, their deep presence. Later in life, I encountered the name again through people of German heritage, where Wolf is short for Wolfgang. Each time, it stirred something familiar in me.

For most of my life, I didn’t like my name. Not my first name, and not my surname either. My birth surname was Dutch, but in English it carried a negative meaning. Growing up, my brothers and I were teased relentlessly. At one point, my family even discussed changing it while we were still children—but it never happened.

In my thirties, my (ex-)wife and I did choose a new surname. After much research, we became Wittenberg, a name connected to both Dutch and German roots, meaning white mountain. That choice alone brought me more confidence and a deeper sense of grounding. It’s no accident that my healing work is now called White Mountain Medicine Man.

Looking back, I don’t know why I didn’t change my first name then too. Perhaps the timing wasn’t right.

When I was young, we had many dogs—never all at once, but one after another. My mother struggled with attachment, and just as my brothers and I grew deeply bonded to an animal, it would be given away. The loss was constant.

My favorite by far was Wagner, named—as all our animals were—after classical composers. Wagner was part wolf, part German Shepherd. One winter, the snow was deep on our farm, and I would spend hours playing with him in the evenings.

I would lift him and throw him into the powder beside our long driveway, then take off running. He would thrash and swim through the snow to catch up, then leap onto my shoulders and bring me down. There was growling and snapping, and laughter from me—but what stayed with me most was this: When I said, “Wagner, sit,” he would stop instantly. Sit. Tail wagging. Completely present.

I felt safe with him. Seen. In command, and yet deeply connected.

That summer, a neighbor accused Wagner of killing his chickens. Days later, I came home from school and Wagner was gone. My mother told me she had paid a local boy to take him to the dump and shoot him.

I was devastated. That loss marked me more deeply than I realized at the time.

Years later, as an adult, I met a woman named Emma while shopping at a grocery store. In casual conversation, she told me she could see spirits—and that many dog spirits followed me. One stood out as the leader: a large, dark dog who would do anything I asked, who would never leave my side.

I knew immediately.

It was Wagner.

Later experiences confirmed Emma’s credibility beyond doubt, and from that moment on, I carried the deep knowing that Wagner was still with me. That knowing has brought me comfort through some of the hardest moments of my life.

I eventually honored him with a tattoo: a deconstructed alchemical symbol of a silver wolf, with his name written beneath it in Elder Futhark runes. During meditation, I began seeing the face of a wolf appear clearly before me—not imagined, not summoned. Simply present.

A spiritual friend once said to me, “Most people meet their spirit animal symbolically. You knew yours in physical form.”

Over time, the wolf became central to my life and work. I commissioned a large gong for sound healing journeys, marked with the same symbol. I named it Gayan Vrukah — Singing Wolf.

Around the same period, something curious began happening. A shamanic practitioner I know simply couldn’t call me Henry. When she tried, it felt wrong—to both of us. We joked about it for years, until one day she said, “Why don’t you just call yourself Wolf?”

I wasn’t ready then.

But not several months later, I met another deeply spiritual woman—someone who had spent over a decade as a monk in Thailand. She told me, without hesitation, “There is something energetically wrong with your name. It’s too weak for who you are now.”

When I told her about the suggestion to call myself Wolf, she smiled. “That’s it,” she said.

Something settled in me. It wasn’t excitement—it was recognition.

I am Wolf.

I haven’t yet changed my name legally. That may come. For now, I am embodying it, allowing it to root into me.

In many cultures, this is normal. You’re given a name at birth. You choose one as an adult. And when you transform—often through hardship and healing—you choose another to reflect who you’ve become.

I know firsthand that a name can be a burden. And I know that choosing one can be liberating.

The last five years of my life have been devoted to confronting and healing childhood trauma. I no longer resemble the person I once was. Not because I became someone new—but because I shed what I had to become in order to survive.

Wagner didn’t die in vain. His spirit didn’t end at a garbage dump. Without knowing it, I carried him forward. His strength. His loyalty. His courage.

I am Wolf.

If you’ve ever felt that your name doesn’t quite fit—like a jacket that’s too small—know that you’re not alone. Sit with it. Meditate on it. Listen. And if you choose to step into a new name, do it for yourself.

You may be surprised by how your life begins to unfold.

This is the only surviving image of Wagner. He was just a pup, maybe 8 weeks old.