How many times have you said, “Fake it till you make it”?
Or heard another capable, accomplished, high-achieving woman say it with a half-laugh —
“I’m just faking it until I make it.”

It’s become part of our cultural script. A shorthand for courage, maybe. A shield.
But let’s be honest — it’s also a symptom.
It plays directly into the story so many of us carry that we’re not ready, not qualified, not enough.

I look nothing like Eeyore, if anything I probably vibe more with Winnie the Pooh, but with pants on.

There have been a few moments in my life where I have been told I was Eeyore, or I was acting like Eeyore.  Now the nickname  has been spoken half in jest, maybe in concern and sometimes in annoyance. But it always lands the same way: as if my heaviness makes me  the gloomy donkey of the story.

There is a quiet kind of love that doesn’t wait to be asked. It simply arrives. Arms open, kettle on, phone call made. It’s the love that holds the centre when everything else feels like it’s falling apart. It’s not flashy. It’s not Instagrammable.