Becoming Nicolas Fairford

I’ll admit something to you.

Over the years, I’ve Googled myself.

My mother always used to tell me, “What other people think of you is none of your business.” She’s right, of course. But when your job involves putting yourself online, and there are entire forums and comment sections to indulge in, it can be surprisingly difficult to resist the temptation.

There’s one Reddit thread in particular that came to mind as I started writing this article. Let me share an excerpt.

“So it was a rainy boring Sunday when my wife came and told me this dude Nicolas Fairford seems kind of fake”

“...After about 3 hours scouring his Instagram, discovering his old Instagram, discovering his abandoned blogs, Twitter, his old internet name and possibly his real name, UK business accounts and set up LLCs from possibly placeholder locations, suspect home locations not matching up Google Earth in the slightest... I concluded he’s not real. He’s that person, but he’s trying to be something he is not, and it makes me really sad.”

I’ll never forget the first time I read that because I actually laughed out loud.

One of the promises I made to myself when I started this career was that I would always be honest. Which is slightly ironic, because the very first thing people discover about me, my name, Nicolas Fairford, is, in a sense, a creation. But that’s a story for another day.

Beyond that, I’ve always tried to be completely transparent. I’ve spoken openly about my upbringing, my mistakes, the fact that I wasn’t born into a grand country house and that I learnt almost everything I know through curiosity rather than privilege.

There is, however, one accusation I can’t entirely disagree with.

In a way, I did fake it until I made it.

Not by pretending to have money I didn’t have. Not by inventing a background or claiming to be something I wasn’t. I never wanted to deceive anyone.

What I did do was begin living the life I hoped to have long before it became my reality.

I visited beautiful hotels when all I could afford was a coffee. I bought flowers for my flat long before I could justify the expense. I learnt about interiors, entertaining and etiquette simply because those things fascinated me, not because anyone expected me to know them. I started behaving as though beauty already belonged in my life, even when very little else did.

Looking back, I don’t think I was pretending.

I think I was practising.

There’s a phrase you’ll often hear if you grew up working class: “Don’t forget where you came from.”

I’ve heard it countless times over the years and, if I’m honest, it has always made me cringe.

What I’ve noticed is that it almost never gets said when you’re struggling. It usually comes after something good has happened. You’ve achieved something, been given an opportunity or reached a milestone you’re genuinely proud of. Instead of simply celebrating that moment, somebody reminds you not to forget where you came from.

I’ve always found that strange.

Of course I haven’t forgotten where I came from. How could I? It’s the reason I value the life I have today. It’s the reason I appreciate opportunities that other people might take for granted.

What I’ve always questioned is why we say this to people who are trying to build a different life for themselves. It almost suggests that ambition should come with an apology, or that doing better than the circumstances you were born into is somehow a betrayal of them.

I don’t believe that.

I’m deeply grateful for where I came from. It shaped my values, my work ethic and my appreciation for beauty. But I don’t think remembering where you came from should mean limiting where you’re allowed to go.

I’ve experienced the opposite, too.

There have been moments when I’ve walked into certain rooms and felt that I wasn’t quite supposed to be there. Nobody actually says it. Sometimes it’s just a look, a question or an assumption about your background. You become aware that you’ve crossed an invisible line.

So yes, in many ways I’ve been pushed from both directions. From one side came the reminder not to forget where I came from. From the other came the subtle suggestion that perhaps I didn’t quite belong.

I decided a long time ago that I wasn’t interested in listening to either.

Life is far too short to let other people’s expectations determine the size of your ambitions.

This week I was invited to The Balmoral Hotel for the launch of its beautiful new event spaces.

It was a glamorous evening. Champagne was served from silver trays by white-gloved waiters, dinner was extravagant, old friends greeted one another with air kisses, and every room was filled with the effortless elegance The Balmoral has become known for. As I looked around, I realised something.

Six years ago, when I first moved to Edinburgh, this evening would have seemed completely impossible.

I’d only just started my YouTube channel and, like so many people starting something new, I had a list in my head of dream collaborations. The Balmoral was right at the top. I remember walking past the hotel and imagining what it would feel like to film there one day. It felt wildly ambitious.

Fast forward six years and The Balmoral has become a regular part of my life. I’ve stayed there, filmed there, celebrated there and, perhaps most wonderfully of all, built genuine friendships with many of the people who work there. Somewhere between dreaming about walking through those doors and doing so without thinking twice, it simply became part of my life.

I’m not telling you this to boast.

I’m telling you because it’s a great example of how standing in that room made me realise how many things that once felt extraordinary have become completely ordinary.

That younger version of me would never have believed that writing to thousands of people every Friday would become part of my routine. He wouldn’t have believed that I’d travel for work, sit in meetings about publishing a book, or receive invitations to places I once admired from the pavement outside.

None of those things happened because I pretended they already existed.

They happened because I began long before I felt ready.

Of course, believing that one day I would live that life didn’t mean I woke up the next morning and found myself there.

Life has a habit of changing far more slowly than we’d like. There were years when I was still figuring things out, still trying to build a career that would last, still wondering how everything would fit together. The destination felt clear, but the route to get there was anything but.

What I never did was tell myself that I had to wait until I’d arrived before I was allowed to enjoy the things that drew me towards that life.

I couldn’t afford to stay at The Balmoral, but every now and then I could justify a coffee there. I’d sit in the lobby, watch the world go by and pay attention to everything. How guests were welcomed. The decor. The music. The way the staff remembered people’s names. None of it felt out of reach. It felt inspiring.

I couldn’t fill my home with antiques, but I could keep it clean, fill it with fresh air and save up for one beautiful thing instead of buying five things I didn’t really love. I couldn’t afford a wardrobe of beautifully tailored clothes, but I could take care of the ones I already owned and wear them with confidence.

Looking back, I realise none of those things were really about hotels, decor, or clothes.

They were about refusing to believe that beauty belonged exclusively to people with more money, more privilege or a different background than my own.

I think that’s where people misunderstand the idea of “fake it till you make it.” I wasn’t trying to convince anybody that I was already living my dream life. I was simply choosing not to postpone it.

Why should I wait until I owned a beautiful home before learning how to make one feel welcoming? Why should I wait until I could afford to stay in the finest hotels before learning what made them so special? Why should I wait for somebody else to give me permission to appreciate beauty?

Nobody was stopping me except the voice that says, “People like you don’t belong here.”

I decided a long time ago that I wasn’t going to listen to that voice.

And perhaps that’s the only part of “faking it” that ever really mattered.

Every now and then I’ll still come across a comment saying I’m pretending. That I’ve reinvented myself. That none of this is really me.

Perhaps they’re seeing something that is true.

I wasn’t born Nicolas Fairford. I wasn’t born knowing about taste, table settings or beautiful hotels. I wasn’t born into the sort of life I now write about every week.

But I don’t believe authenticity means remaining exactly as you were.

Surely the whole point of life is that we’re allowed to become.

Looking back, I don’t feel embarrassed by the younger version of myself sitting in hotel lobbies with a coffee, imagining a different future. I feel grateful to him.

He taught me that you don’t need permission to appreciate beauty. You don’t need permission to dream bigger than your circumstances. And you certainly don’t need permission to begin.

Perhaps that’s what people mistake for pretending.

I see it as becoming.

Nicolas x