Maya

Some names announce themselves. Maya just arrives: two syllables, soft landing, already comfortable in the room. It is the sort of name you can say quietly across a park and still be heard.

It reaches us from Sanskrit, and the meaning is unusually poetic. Depending which thread you pull, Maya means illusion or water. That is a curious pair of ideas to hand a newborn. One suggests the world is not quite what it seems; the other suggests you will always find your own level. Most names promise strength, beauty or a distinguished set of ancestors. Maya offers a riddle and a glass of water, which is arguably more useful at three in the morning.

Plenty of parents have decided they like the riddle. It is number 15 in England and Wales and number 16 in Canada, both 2024 figures, which is roughly the sweet spot: everyone recognises it, nobody suspects you of showing off. It lands at 47 in Australia in 2025, 58 in New Zealand, 48 in Brazil, 68 in France and 77 in Catalonia, while the United States had it at 61 in 2020. Very few names spread that evenly across so many alphabets without losing their shape somewhere along the way.

The company it keeps

The name has been worn rather well. Maya Angelou, the American poet, author and civil rights activist, lived from 1928 to 2014. Maya Plisetskaya, the Russian ballet dancer, from 1925 to 2015. On screen there is Maya Hawke, the American actress, and Maya Rudolph, the American actress and comedian. Poetry, ballet, comedy: the name does not seem to insist on a single career path, which is a relief, given your baby has not yet filed a preference.

Then there is the practical side, which matters more than anyone admits until they are filling in a form. Four letters. One obvious spelling in most places. A ready-made nickname in May for the days when even two syllables feel like an imposition. It fits on a lunchbox label, it survives being shouted up a staircase, and it crosses languages without picking up an awkward accent or an apologetic explanation.

Stylistically it runs with a gentle, sunlit crowd. If Kai, Luna, Milo and Sienna keep reappearing on your shortlist, Maya belongs on there too: unfussy, warm, faintly elemental, the sort of name that suits both a toddler covered in yoghurt and a grown woman running a meeting.

The only real catch is that popularity. At number 15, your Maya may well share a coat peg with another one, and whether that troubles you is entirely a matter of temperament. It is also precisely the kind of thing you will turn over at two in the morning while the actual owner of the name sleeps through the debate, blissfully unconsulted. Naming a person is a lovely job, and a slightly ridiculous one: no returns, no receipt, just a word you hope grows into them.