Relearning Pink

I used to hate the color pink—

the way it clung to everything soft,

how it whispered instead of spoke,

how it shimmered like something

that never had to fight to be seen.

I thought pink was fragile,

a bruise before the purple,

a tongue bitten back mid-scream.

I didn’t know it could be power

dressed in hush tones—

a rebellion that smells like roses

and still draws blood.

Now I see pink in the stretch marks

carved across my hips,

in the raw skin of healing,

in the sky before the sun forgives itself.

Pink is the inhale before I cry,

the pulse beneath my throat

that says I am still here—

still soft,

still woman,

still wild enough to love what I once refused to touch.

Pink is not a weakness.

It’s the echo of strength

that never had to shout—

it’s me holding the hand of the little girl

who once hid from herself,

painting her world in color again.

It’s the sound of her laughter returning,

the warmth of her trust

spilling gently back into my palms.

Pink is me, finally,

healing the child who thought

she had to be anything

but tender.

And now,

it’s one of my favorite colors.