"Sher Bear"—the nickname has been with me for as long as I can remember. My father, ever the poetic type (not really), was the one who gave it to me. It stuck like honey on fur, following me through childhood and adolescence, echoing through family dinners, birthday parties, and playdates. My sisters, my mom, my closest friends—they all used it, an affectionate moniker that somehow always made me feel both loved and distinctly myself.
Then, in 1983, along came the Care Bears, with their sugary, pastel glory. Among them was Share Bear, an emblem of generosity and kindness. I was only four years old, but even then, I felt a profound connection. Share Bear was me—or rather, I was her. She made sharing look magical, and I took that lesson to heart. From then on, I tried to embody her spirit, growing into someone who was accommodating, giving, and yes, occasionally self-sacrificing. It’s a pattern that persisted into adulthood: if someone needed something, I was there, often at the expense of my own needs.
Fast-forward a couple of decades, and I decided to officially embrace "Sher" as my name. It was a deliberate choice, spurred by a period of reinvention. At the time, I had just ended my marriage and was in the midst of rediscovering who I was apart from that identity. Someone I was dating offhandedly suggested shortening my full name, Sherri, to "Sher." It clicked immediately. Sher felt lighter, freer—like a name I could grow into. And just like that, it became a marker of my transformation, a quiet declaration of independence.
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