It Was Never About Pink

For years, I wore my hate for pink like a badge of honour. In family pictures, I’m the girl in olive green or charcoal gray, arms crossed, frowning, silently declaring my difference. My bedroom walls were a dark shade of grey; my backpack, a practical black. Pink, I declared, was too flashy, too sweet, too expected. It was the colour of the box I refused to be placed in. This wasn’t just my quirk. I’ve spoken to enough girls to know it was a shared language of refusal. We traded notes on hating ballet, dismissing princess narratives, rolling our eyes at the avalanche of pink toys that seemed to greet our every birthday. My rebellion was quiet, internal, but fierce. It was a way of asserting, “I am more complex than your assumption.” But recently, I found myself pausing in front of a sunset. A breathtaking explosion of rose, coral, and blush across the sky. And I felt a pure, uncomplicated ache of beauty. Later, I bought a shirt in deep, dusty rose and felt a genuine thrill putting it on. Not because it was pretty, but because it felt like me. That’s when the realization crystallized. It was never really about pink. It was never about the colour itself. It’s innocent. It holds no agenda. My rebellion was against the mandate. Against the lazy shorthand that said liking pink meant liking sparkles and everything traditionally “girly”. It was against the cultural script that tried to dictate my identity before I’d had a chance to write it myself. By rejecting pink, I was rejecting the simplistic narrative that came with it. I was trying to carve out space for my own complexities. For my love of astronomy and books, for my loud laugh and stubborn opinions. In saying, “I hate pink,” what I was really saying was, “Don’t define me.” I was refusing to be a stereotype before I could be a person. Now, with adulthood, I see the irony. In adamantly rejecting something I was “supposed” to like, I was still letting the expectation dictate my actions. True freedom is knowing I can love astronomy and the perfect shade of pink. I can be formidable and still wear a ribbon in my hair. So, I’m making peace with pink. Not the cultural construct, but the actual colour. Letting it be a colour I can like or dislike on any given day, for my own reasons. Because my quiet rebellion has evolved. It’s no longer about what I refuse to be. It’s about the fearless, multifaceted complexity of who I am.

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