Let’s be honest, we have all heard the phrase “fake it till you make it.” But if I’m being completely transparent, I’ve never really bought into that idea.

When my husband and I first got married, we moved away to Wyoming for his first duty station. I had never been away from my hometown, and I wanted so badly to be the model military wife. The truth? I didn’t know how to cook, I wasn’t really sure how to deep-clean a house, and I definitely did not know how to sew. I had been a tomboy most of my life. I loved sports and blue-collar work. I never even imagined myself as a stay-at-home mom; I was pretty averse to the idea, but after the birth of my son and my pregnancy with my daughter, I wanted so badly to be a good mom and a good wife.

I had a sewing machine that someone had gifted me, but it just sat in its original box, untouched. It wasn’t until I found out I was pregnant with a little girl that I felt inspired to open it; I wanted to try sewing her a little dress.

Around that same time, my husband got promoted and needed his new rank sewn onto his blouse. He asked if I could do it for him.

I had no idea how, but inside, I felt like admitting that would make me less of a wife. I was only 19, and no one had ever taught me how to operate a machine, let alone hand-sew patches onto a rigid uniform. Yet I convinced myself that being unable to help him was a personal failure.

So, I told him I could.

He came home later that day to find his patches hand-sewn, completely crooked, and looking terrible. I was convicted instantly when I handed his messed-up uniform to him.

I could see the disappointment on his face right away. It wasn’t that he was angry at my lack of skill; he simply needed his uniform ready for duty. But in trying to protect my pride, I had caused a problem for both of us.

Military uniforms are expensive for a young Airman First Class, and I had likely cost us money that we did not have to spend. It was 2009 and our money was not going very far. Buying new uniforms simply because I was too prideful to admit it was not a skill I had was not affordable and honestly not wise.

If I had just been honest from the start and said, “I don’t know how,” I would have saved us both from that heartbreak. Instead, I had to watch his stress unfold, which left me carrying a heavy weight of guilt for letting him down and for pretending to be someone I wasn’t yet.

The Cost of Pride

The hardest part about “faking it” wasn’t just my bruised ego; it was the fact that my pride directly impacted someone else. It directly affected our relationship.

When we choose to pretend we have it all together, we aren’t just protecting ourselves from a little embarrassment. We are actively pushing the risk onto the people around us. In my case, it was my husband’s uniform for duty. By trying to save face and act like the capable, traditional wife I thought I was supposed to be, I ended up creating a real problem for the person I was trying to support.

“Fake it till you make it” sounds empowering when it’s about building confidence behind closed doors. But when it turns into deceiving the people who rely on us, it’s no longer confidence, it’s pride. And pride always charges a price, usually to the people we care about most.

Looking back, I realize the problem was never about my ability. It was about my honesty.

When we choose to “fake it,” we aren’t just trying to project confidence. Let’s call it what it really is: lying. I was pretending to be someone I wasn’t yet because I was too proud to admit my limitations. My husband wasn’t mad at me for not knowing how to sew; he was stressed because he needed his uniform ready for duty, and my pride got in the way of a real solution.

In fact, that experience shook me so much that it completely scared me off from picking up my machine for another five years. For years, the sewing machine sat untouched. The guilt and fear of failing again kept me from even trying. Now it is a staple in my home, and I have an entire room dedicated to sewing. It wasn’t time yet.

He did not ask me to sew a single thing for him again until years later, after he saw that I had taken the time to actually learn, practice, and become truly efficient with my machine.

We are 18 years into our marriage now, and I’ve been sewing his patches on for 13 of those years. But getting here required a hard lesson early on: trust isn’t built on having all the answers or putting on a perfect front. It’s built on being honest about where you’re starting from.