Mckinley—brisk on the tongue like mountain air and written with the clean strokes of a shodō brush—traces its roots to the Scottish Gaelic Mac Fhionnlaigh, “child of the fair-haired hero,” a meaning that seems to hover, pale-gold, above the syllables; yet this once-rugged clan name wandered across the Atlantic, climbed into American politics with President William McKinley, and finally settled, rather unexpectedly, in the cradle of girls, where its spare consonants feel as fresh as the snow cresting Alaska’s Denali (long called Mount McKinley, though the peak herself never seemed fussed by the paperwork). Parents who choose it often speak of a quiet strength—part Highlands thistle, part origami crane—and of the sly modernity that lets a daughter stride through life with a nickname as jaunty as Kins or Mac while keeping the full, rolling rhythm of muh-KIN-lee for formal moments. In popularity charts it rises and falls like the tide against a torii gate, never quite common, never truly rare, suggesting a balance beloved in Japanese aesthetics: the beauty of asymmetry, the charm of impermanence, and, perhaps, the dry punch line that a name meaning “son” can so effortlessly belong to a daughter destined to write her own legends across the sky.