I Hate Pink

When people see me now, they know I love pink. Everything is pink—my nails, my phone case, even the towels in my apartment.

But at 10, I hated pink. Not because I actually hated it, but because it wasn’t cool to like pink. So I said my favorite color was blue instead. (To be fair, blue is still my second favorite—I love a good coastal grandma aesthetic.)

By 17, I had reclaimed pink. Every time I looked in the mirror, I saw the 12-year-old girl who had once swapped her pink princess room for Tiffany blue because, in 2014, Breakfast at Tiffany’s was the pinnacle of cool.

And then, suddenly, I was 20. And I hated pink again—not because I really hated it, but because I had convinced myself I had to. I let myself fade into a world of greys, blacks, and neutrals, believing that was the price of belonging. That was how I proved my commitment to fulfilling a family legacy.

I look back now and realize I thought I was at my happiest. I thought I was at my peak. But all I see is a 20-year-old girl so desperate to impress that she lost herself in the process.

My two-year, neutral-toned world came crashing down one night. I had stripped myself of everything that made me me—and for what? To be seen? To be chosen? When I wasn’t, I felt like a failure.

Or at least, I thought so.

Now, at almost 23, I sit in my pink-alicious one-bedroom apartment in the city I dreamed about at 17. I hear people talking as they pass by my window. I use the creativity I once poured into my pink childhood bedroom to fuel my dream job. I just shipped a PR package to Hailey Bieber.

10-year-old me would ask, “Who is Hailey Bieber?” and wonder why my last name isn’t Bieber. 17-year-old me would be screaming, freaking out, telling me this is so cool—before realizing that for me now, this is just normal. We send cool things to people we love.

What I once saw as failure was really just me needing my pink back. So believe me, your rejection was God’s redirection.

Because I got my pink back.