My emotional support rabbit, more white than Pink, after years of enduring tears and constant use, now sits on the top shelf of my closet hunched over and worn. If you look closely behind the layers of clothes, you can see the remainder of a muted Pink wall, which I previously begged my parents to paint a much more gaudy shade. The Pink sparkly capital “L” pillow, the Pink square woven pillows, the Pink crunchy comforter that always seems cold to the touch, the light-pink twin-sized sheets, and the large fuzzy Pink princess blanket all lay shoved into the old wooden closet in the hallway. The closet seems to burst with Pink childhood memorabilia, reserved only for me, the hinges creaking and struggling with each rare attempt to open. Pink isn't just a color; it is a collection of nostalgic memories from my childhood tucked away into a forgotten cupboard.

The previous Pink that painted my walls could’ve been described as: “damask rose,” “mellow Pink” or “Pink powderpuff”. Pallid Pink paint can be found if you look close enough at the corner of my room (as well as the closet) from scratches on the wall between the bed frame. A nameless transition took place once I was past kindergarten, and my own opinions started to form, it seemed that Pink was the color that no girl liked anymore, so I sure wasn’t going to. Pink was for girly girls, Pink was for little kids, and Pink was lame. The Pink on my walls was painted over by a turquoise blue that could have been described as: “Jazzy Jade,” “Caicos,” or “Teal Zeal”. 

Once, when I was ten, I walked through a Pink rose garden in London. I remember the warm morning sun rays beating on my face and surprising me with their strength during the early, normally cloudy, morning. There were so many flowers in all different types of arrangements: arches, bushes, mazes, and rows, and you could walk through all of them. More importantly, all of them were Pink. I was starstruck by their beauty, I usually don’t like roses, but the glint of the water droplets on each petal from the sprinklers and the different shades of Pink were unforgettable. That was the only instance after months of hoping to repaint my Pink room that I rethought the notion. The week I got back home my room was blue. I only purposefully kept my closet Pink because it’s a lot of work to repaint, but also because I thought to myself that the Queen of England must have had an attachment to the color. 

In my room all Pink was stripped, the Pink and white striped rug where I would play with all of my Barbies was replaced by a larger bed, the Pink Hello Kitty lamp was replaced with a circular light-up alarm clock, and the Pink vanity was replaced by a large plain white dresser. 

Elementary school villainized the color Pink, creating an uncrossable border due to all of the little girls attempting to rebel against societal norms in any perceivable way. The girls, in their once pink shoes, now stomped on what they believed to be the inaccurate prejudice that pink created, stigmatising it as feminine and weak. The girls paint over their previously pink walls, and with each concealing stroke of blue, they cover the color which defines them as soft, or weak, or feminine, not yet embracing it. 

I will never grow tired of the color, Pink is a distant memory flickering in the back of my brain waiting to be reignited, reminding me of childhood bliss. I will never grow tired of the color because when embraced Pink is the symbol of strength, womanhood and femininity. I will never grow tired of the color, Pink is the pale piggy bank, heavy with only coins after years of squeezing my hands inside to reach the bills residing. And I will never grow tired of the color, even after writing the word “Pink” forty-four times, because Pink is the color of change once resembling a defiant past and now an acceptant future.