Even if you're unhappy, just pretend that you're happy.

Hear the words of Evangeline Lilly, who confessed with honesty and wisdom: “Even if you’re unhappy, just pretend that you’re happy. Eventually, your smile will be contagious to yourself. I had to learn that. I used to think, ‘I’m being fake,’ but you know what? Better to be fake and happy than real and miserable.” These words may seem strange to ears that prize authenticity above all things, yet within them lies an ancient and powerful truth: the spirit can be trained by the body, and the outward expression of joy can awaken the inward flame.

The origin of this wisdom reaches back to the philosophies of old. The Stoics taught that a man could shape his own soul through habit and posture. If you act with courage, even when trembling, you will soon become courageous. If you walk with dignity, even when uncertain, you will soon become noble. So too with joy: to smile, even when the heart feels heavy, is not deceit, but discipline. It is the training of the soul to lift itself from the mire of despair. Lilly, in her journey, discovered this same eternal principle—that the outward smile can summon inward strength.

Consider the life of Abraham Lincoln, who bore the crushing burden of civil war and personal loss. He was often melancholy, yet he cultivated humor and shared stories with those around him. He laughed not because his soul was carefree, but because he knew laughter was medicine. His outward mirth fed his inner resilience, just as Lilly describes. He did not call it “being fake,” but rather a conscious choice to lean toward light, even in the shadows.

The ancients of the East also taught this wisdom. In Buddhist practice, monks are instructed to wear a “half-smile” during meditation, even when sorrow fills the heart. For the body and spirit are intertwined, and a gentle smile of the lips can soothe the storms of the mind. Lilly’s words echo this practice: the act may begin as an outward mask, but in time, the mask ceases to be false—for the heart reshapes itself around the gesture of peace.

There is a heroism in this practice. To dwell in misery and to call it authenticity is easy; to reach upward, to choose happiness even when it does not come naturally, is an act of courage. Lilly admits she once believed she was “being fake,” but came to see that it was better to build joy, even artificially at first, than to surrender to despair. This is not dishonesty, but resilience. It is the forging of joy through discipline, as a blacksmith forges a blade from stubborn iron.

The lesson is clear: the smile is not merely the reflection of joy, but also its seed. To wear it, even in sorrow, is to plant the roots of happiness within yourself. And in time, what began as effort becomes genuine. Your own spirit will catch the contagion of your smile, and others will be lifted as well. Thus, by pretending joy, you may create it—not only for yourself, but for all who behold you.

Therefore, beloved, let this be your practice: when the storm clouds gather and the heart feels heavy, do not yield to the face of despair. Choose instead to smile, to lift your countenance toward hope. Share laughter when you least feel like laughing, for in doing so you build a bridge back to joy. In time, you will find that what was once “fake” has become real, and what was once effort has become nature. And so, as Lilly teaches, it is better to shape happiness through discipline than to be a slave to misery.