The Baby Donkey's Rainbow Coat
During our training to become an Ollie Coach we ask our trainees to write a metaphor of their Ollie Journey.
The Baby Donkey
Once upon a time there was a baby donkey who came into the world glowing with vitality. Her coat shimmered like a rainbow after rain—bright with mischief and wonder—and she loved nothing more than adventures, muddy hooves, and exploring with her friends.
But while she was still very young, tragedy struck her family. In the confusion that followed, a well-meaning relative stepped in—gentle hands, earnest voice—and replaced the little donkey’s vibrant rainbow coat with a heavy grey one. Stitched across the back, in bold letters, were the words: GOOD GIRL.
At first, the grey coat felt like protection. People smiled more. People praised her. They patted her head and said she was “so good,” “so easy,” “so helpful.” And because she was clever, and because she wanted to be safe and loved, she learned to wear it properly. Soon she stopped noticing how little room it left her to breathe.
As she grew older, she took on the responsibility of a prestigious, well-paid job. She threw her heart and soul into it, and she was very good at it. The slogan on her back seemed to allow her to fit in. It kept the world pleased. It kept other people comfortable.
But slowly the grey coat began to change. It grew thicker. Heavier. It dulled, as if it had been rubbed by a thousand careful compromises. And though she still worked hard, still smiled on cue, the coat lost its glossy sheen… and the vitality began to fade from her eyes.
In time, she became a mother. At first, she told herself this was simply adulthood: being tired, being responsible, being needed. She carried nappies and groceries and expectations with the same steady strength she carried everything else. She didn’t complain. Good girls didn’t.
Then one day she watched her little foal—fresh-eyed, bright-coated, full of questions—kick up dust and laugh at the way sunlight broke into colours. The laugh was so familiar it hurt. It sounded like a memory. And in that moment, the mother donkey realised something that made her chest tighten: if she stayed wrapped in grey, her foal would learn grey too. Not because anyone would mean harm, but because children learn love by watching what we accept.
She tried, at first, to shrug the thought away. But once it arrived, it wouldn’t leave. It followed her into meetings, into school runs, into the quiet moments when she stood at the sink staring at her own reflection in the window—grey on grey—wondering when she had last felt truly alive.
One evening, while her foal slept, she found a loose thread near the collar of the coat. Almost without meaning to, she tugged it. Just once. A tiny flash of colour peeked through—so small she could have missed it if she hadn’t been looking.
She didn’t do it alone. Over time, she found a small circle of newfound friends—women who had their own threads coming loose, who were done being polite about their own disappearing. Some wore coats like hers, some had frayed slogans, some were already bright beneath patches they’d reclaimed. They didn’t see each other often but she carried their quiet encouragement with her: We’re here. We see you
In the space they made, the donkey found her own voice—quiet at first, then steadier—until “No” stopped feeling like danger and started feeling like freedom.
Little by little, stitch by stitch, she began to unpick the slogan. Some days she only managed one thread before fear flooded her. Other days she pulled until her hooves ached. Underneath, colour returned—not all at once, not in a grand reveal, but in honest fragments: the red of anger she’d swallowed for years, the gold of laughter, the blue of calm, the green of curiosity. She remembered old passions she’d abandoned because they were “impractical.” She made time for them anyway. She learned the strange, radiant truth that joy is not a reward for being good; it is a sign of being alive.
And as she changed, so did her mothering. She stopped teaching her foal to earn love through obedience and started teaching her to recognise her own needs, her own boundaries, her own bright yes. When the foal danced, the mother danced too—awkward at first, then freer, laughing at the sheer ridiculousness of moving for no purpose other than delight. Her friends laughed with her. They celebrated every brave thread pulled, every choice made for herself, every moment she came home to her own life.
The grey coat didn’t vanish overnight. Sometimes she still reached for it out of habit, especially when the world grew loud. But now she knew the difference between safety and shrinking. Now she knew she had choices—and a circle that would steady her when her knees trembled. And on the mornings when sunlight hit just right, you could see it clearly: the rainbow wasn’t something she’d lost. It was something she’d been wearing underneath, patiently waiting to be welcomed back into the light.
KP OS21