Thoughts on brand renaming, rebranding, and the idea a name must hold
A founder called once, with a discomfort he couldn’t quite name.
“Everything has changed,” he said. “Except… the name.”
There was a pause after that. The kind that usually carries more meaning than the sentence itself.
The business had moved on. The technology had evolved. The ambition had sharpened. Even the customer looked different now.
But the name remained… like an old photograph kept on a desk. Not inaccurate. Just no longer true.
This happens more often than we admit.
And when it does, organisations tend to respond in predictable ways.
Some rearrange the surface. A new logo. A new colour. A more contemporary typeface. The language becomes lighter, the website faster. The word “rebrand” is used with quiet satisfaction.
But the name stays. And so, the perception stays. Because a name is not a layer. It is the handle by which memory holds you. Change everything except that, and you’ve only moved the furniture around.
Others go to the opposite extreme.
A new leader arrives. Or restlessness sets in. Or someone, somewhere, has read that it might be time.
And so the name is changed.
Not because something fundamental has shifted, but because something superficial has.
This is not reinvention. It is impatience, dressed up as strategy.
The real question sits elsewhere. It is rarely asked directly.
What is the one idea this business cannot do without?
Not the tagline. Not the positioning statement. Not the carefully constructed vision that sits in a presentation.
The one idea that, if removed, would make the business unrecognisable.
That is the centre of gravity.
Everything else—behaviour, communication, design, even the name—either orbits around it… or drifts.
Human memory is the most expensive real estate on Earth. And a memorable brand name is the cheapest way to buy a place there.
So historically brand names were coined to aid memory: simple, day-to-day objects. Much like political party symbols.
A ship cannot have any relationship with a matchstick; a parachute does not have any relationship with a cooking/hair oil…but they thrive as brands.
Then brand names began to describe categories. Coca-Cola names both its ingredients: coca leaves from South America, and kola nuts from West Africa. Or product benefits. Closeup toothpaste.
Today, a name is asked to do something far more difficult. It must hold an idea.
Not explain the business. Not summarise the offering. Simply hold the core thought, intact.
Which is why the question of renaming a business is never really about the name.
It is about whether that central idea has shifted.
If it hasn’t, a new name is decoration.
If it has, the old name becomes a constraint.
There is a temptation, always, to expect too much from a name.
To make it explain, reassure, differentiate, and persuade—all at once.
But a name is not a paragraph.
It is closer to a seed.
It contains the idea. It does not perform it.
hat work belongs elsewhere.
Consider how often we reach for names that describe the category.
They are comforting. Immediately understood.
But they also come with invisible boundaries.
They tell you what the brand is.
And, just as importantly, what it is not allowed to become.
Think why Dunkin’ dropped Donuts from its brand name in 2019.
Non-category names ask for more patience.
They do not explain themselves on day one.
But over time, they accumulate meaning rather than exhaust it.
They grow.
Thank God, Google was not called WebSearch.
It can lend its brand name to over 120 diverse services, unrelated to web search.
There is also a quieter anxiety, especially here.
That a name must sound a certain way to travel.
That familiarity in one culture might limit acceptance in another.
But names travel not because of their origin, but because of the meaning they gather.
Most people never pause to ask where a word comes from.
They respond to what it comes to represent.
Perhaps the more interesting question is this:
What happens when a name continues, unchanged, while everything else evolves?
Sometimes, nothing at all.
Because the centre has remained intact.
And sometimes, a quiet friction builds.
Between what is said… and what is meant.
Between memory… and reality.
We named ourselves chlorophyll once, a long time ago.
The intent was simple enough. To do meaningful work. Efficiently. Without drawing attention to ourselves.
The name felt right then.
It still does.
Not because it was clever.
But because the idea it held has remained unchanged.
Names, like people, are tested by time.
Not when they are new, but when they have had the chance to become slightly old.
The real question is not whether a name feels right today.
But whether it will still feel true… when everything else has moved on.
