The Power Of White

I woke up feeling like a crumpled napkin at the bottom of a takeout bag. The kind of morning where your soul feels like it’s been left out in the rain. Gray. Damp. Slightly moldy. I groaned and rolled over, cocooning myself in my duvet. Maybe I could just dissolve into my mattress. That seemed like the best option.

But then, through the crack in my curtains, a sliver of white light sliced through. A sign? A calling? Or just the sun being obnoxiously persistent? Hard to say.

I dragged myself out of bed and, in a rare moment of self-preservation, reached for my white linen dress. Crisp, clean, like an untouched page. I slipped it over my head and—bam—instant reset.

White does that. It doesn’t ask how bad your week was. It doesn’t care if you spent the last three days eating toast over the sink. White just says, "Start over." And I needed that.

I stepped outside, armed with my accidental armor of purity, and immediately walked into a coffee shop. Because no fresh start is complete without caffeine. The barista took one look at me and said, “Wow, you look…bright.”

Translation: "You usually look like you’ve been attacked by life."

I took it as a win.

I sat by the window, sipping my latte, watching the world exist in its usual chaotic swirl of traffic, dogs, and people pretending to text so they wouldn’t have to talk to each other. And then, just as I was feeling a little too poetic, a tiny, sticky, jam-covered child ran past me, hand outstretched, a missile of destruction aimed directly at my white dress.

I moved faster than I have ever moved in my life. Matrix-style. My dress survived. Barely.

But even if it hadn’t, that was the thing about white. It didn’t care. A stain? That’s just a memory with proof. Another chance to wash clean and begin again.

By the time I left the café, I felt different. Lighter. Not because my problems were gone, but because white had tricked me into believing they weren’t so permanent. It whispered, "Nothing sticks forever. Not coffee, not jam, not even sadness."

That’s when it hit me. White isn’t actually just one color. It’s every color. Every wavelength of light mashed together to create something that looks empty but is actually full. Full of every possibility, every start-over, every shade of life blended into one.

It wasn’t just a reset button. It was everything at once—every sadness and every joy, every failure and every clean slate, every dark moment and every burst of hope, crammed into one color that could reflect anything.

That explained why it felt like home. White wasn’t just a color; it was permission. Permission to change, to erase, to rewrite. Permission to walk outside even when you felt like garbage, to start fresh even when you didn’t believe you could. Permission to be something new, even when the world expected you to stay the same.

Then something strange happened.

As I was walking home, lost in my thoughts about the infinite power of white, a woman stepped out of a store and nearly collided with me. I apologized automatically, and then I saw her face.

It was mine.

Not a doppelgänger. Not a long-lost twin. Me. But not me. Slightly older, standing there in an all-white suit like some kind of celestial CEO. Her hair was sleek, her posture confident, and her expression... knowing.

I blinked. "Uh. Hi?"

She smiled. "I was wondering when you'd figure it out."

"Figure what out? That I’ve officially lost my mind? Because that realization came a while ago, honestly."

She chuckled. "No. That white isn’t just a color you wear. It’s something you become."

I stared. "Oh. Cool. Totally normal thing to hear from a version of myself that shouldn't exist."

"It’s true," she said, ignoring my existential crisis. "Think about it. White is clarity. White is space. White is the moment before the brush touches the canvas. It’s endless possibility. And that’s what you’ve been craving, isn’t it? A chance to start fresh. To rewrite. To stop being stuck in the same tired story." I swallowed. "I mean... yeah. Kind of."

She gestured to my dress. "You put this on today because you wanted a clean slate. But the truth is, you always have one. Every second, every breath, every choice. You’re never as stuck as you think." I frowned. "If I have endless possibilities, then why does life still feel so... hard?" She shrugged. "Because you’re human. And because realizing you can change doesn’t mean it’s easy. But it does mean it’s possible." I crossed my arms. "Okay, so, hypothetically, if I accept this whole ‘white is infinite possibility’ thing, then what? I just walk around like some enlightened being, never making mistakes, glowing softly in the sunlight?"

"Oh, no," she said, laughing. "You’ll still spill coffee on yourself. You’ll still have days where you feel like a crumpled napkin. But you’ll know that none of it is permanent. That’s the difference."

I let that sink in. "Huh." "Anyway," she said, straightening her cuffs, "I should go. Just wanted to drop by and confirm that you're on the right track. Keep wearing white. Keep starting over. It’s working."

"Wait!" I said as she turned to leave. "If you’re me from the future, can you at least tell me if I figure everything out?" She grinned. "What would be the fun in that?" And just like that, she was gone.

I stood there, baffled, in the middle of the sidewalk as the city carried on around me. A cyclist swerved to avoid me, a pigeon eyed me suspiciously from a lamppost, and somewhere in the distance, a car alarm was going off. The world, utterly unchanged. And yet, I felt different.

White wasn’t just a color. It wasn’t just a reset button. It was every possibility, every version of myself, waiting to be chosen.

And for the first time in a long time, I felt like I was choosing.

I took a deep breath, adjusted my dress, and walked on, ready for whatever came next.

Even if it was just another latte and another near-miss with a jam-covered child. Because now I knew: nothing sticks forever. Not coffee. Not sadness. Not even me.