John Doe v. United States. Jane Roe v. Wade. Sealed Plaintiff v. Sealed Defendant. Behind these anonymous names lie real people with real grievances seeking real justice. But why the masks? In a legal system built on transparency, when and why do we allow litigants to hide their identities? The answer reveals a delicate balance between two fundamental principles: the public’s right to know and an individual’s right to privacy. Throughout American history, courts have wrestled with this tension. The result is a complex patchwork of rules and exceptions that speaks volumes about what our legal system values—and why it sometimes makes concessions to protect the vulnerable. Anonymity in court isn’t new. It dates back to English common law, where the fictional names John Doe and Richard Roe were used in property disputes. But in modern times, pseudonyms serve different purposes entirely. Today, anonymous litigation exists as an exception to a crucial rule: Rule 10(a) of the Federal Rules of Civil Procedure requires that “the title of the complaint must name all the parties.” This rule embodies the principle that courts are public institutions, and their proceedings should be open to scrutiny. So what justifies breaking this rule? Courts typically permit anonymity in three categories of cases. First, where disclosure would reveal highly sensitive information—matters involving sexuality, gender identity, mental health, or medical conditions. Second, where parties reasonably fear retaliation—whether physical, professional, or social. And third, where minors or other vulnerable individuals need protection. Consider the landmark case that transformed American reproductive rights. In 1973, “Jane Roe” challenged Texas abortion laws all the way to the Supreme Court. Behind this pseudonym was Norma McCorvey, a 22-year-old woman seeking to terminate an unwanted pregnancy. The Court allowed her anonymity due to the intensely personal nature of the case and the social stigma attached to abortion at the time. The digital age has only heightened these tensions. Court records that once gathered dust in basement archives now exist online, searchable forever with a few keystrokes. A lawsuit that might have been practically obscure twenty years ago now lives eternally in search results, potentially affecting employment, relationships, and reputation long after the case concludes. As a result, courts increasingly face requests for “retroactive anonymity”—allowing previously named parties to seal or redact their identities after proceedings have ended. These requests force judges to reconsider the balance between transparency and privacy in an era of digital permanence. In the end, anonymous litigation represents a compromise—an acknowledgment that sometimes the most vulnerable voices can only be heard when they’re allowed to speak from behind a mask. The next time you see a case caption with “Doe” or “Anonymous,” look beyond the pseudonym. There stands a real person who has convinced a court that their story deserves to be heard—even if their name remains unspoken.