Phases of Pink

The first time Mira saw the color pink, she was five. Her mother had placed a small plastic tiara on her head, its tiny pink gemstones catching the bedroom light like captured stars. Princesses wear pink, her mother had said. So Mira twirled in her too-big dress, beaming as if she ruled a kingdom of stuffed animals and bedtime stories.

At thirteen, pink became the color of embarrassment. It started subtly at first—a shift in perception, a quiet unraveling. The soft pink of her childhood walls began to feel too childish, too bright, as if they belonged to someone else. She stopped reaching for the pink dresses her mother used to pick out, gravitating toward blues and grays instead.

Then came the note. Her best friend giggled as she shoved it into Mira’s hands, urging her toward Jake Morris, the boy with dimples and scuffed-up sneakers. The paper was a delicate pastel pink, torn from a notebook meant for love letters. It had felt romantic when she first wrote it, the color a whisper of hope. But when Jake unfolded it, something shifted. His laughter—sharp, ringing—split through the air like a snapped thread. His friends leaned over his shoulder, snickering as they read her words. Do you like me? Check yes or no.

Mira felt her face burn, the heat creeping from her cheeks to the tips of her ears. She wanted to disappear, to shrink so small she could slip between the cracks in the floor. The pink paper, once a symbol of courage, now crumpled in her trembling hands like something fragile and foolish.

Pink had betrayed her. And for years, she wanted nothing to do with it.

At sixteen, pink was rebellion. Not the soft, pastel pink of childhood dreams, but something louder, sharper. Bubblegum pink, neon and unashamed. She dyed a streak of it into her black hair, letting it stand out like a battle cry.

Her father frowned when he saw it. “It’s just a phase,” he muttered, shaking his head like she was some kind of unfinished draft, something that would eventually be revised into a more acceptable version of herself. But Mira was done being revised.

At school, the other girls whispered about her, mostly sneering. The ones who had outgrown pink entirely, who thought femininity was weak, gave her side-eyes in the hall. They wore their boyish clothes and scoffed at "girly-girls" like they were something lesser. Mira had spent years running from pink, from the humiliation of it, from the way it had made her feel small. But now, she wielded it like a weapon. She painted her nails magenta, wore pink shoelaces in her worn-out combat boots, and let her bubblegum streak glow under the school lights.

When a boy snickered at her hair and said, “Pink’s for little girls,” Mira only smirked, flipping her streak over her shoulder. “Yeah? Then why are you so scared of it?”

At twenty-two, pink was love. Not the fleeting, shaky kind written on notes or whispered in dim hallways, but something steady. Something that wrapped around her like a second skin, soft yet unyielding.

Mira was in love the way petals open to sunlight, the way waves return to shore, inevitable and endless. It was in the way Emma’s laughter curled into the air, warm and golden, as if it had been made just for her. In the way Emma’s fingers traced absentminded circles on the inside of her wrist, the touch lingering even after she pulled away. Emma’s lipstick left faint pink stains on Mira’s coffee cup, a quiet kind of claiming. A reminder that she had been there, pressing close, sharing warmth in the early morning light. Her lipstick lingered on Mira’s cheek after a quick kiss in passing, on her collarbone after an evening that blurred into the hush of tangled limbs and whispered secrets.

“You look good in pink,” Emma teased one evening, slipping a rose-colored sweater over Mira’s head, her touch slow, deliberate. Mira let herself sink into it, into the warmth of Emma’s hands, the scent of her lavender shampoo, the way their world had turned soft at the edges.

At thirty, pink was heartbreak. A single pink envelope, small and quiet, carried news too big to hold. I’m sorry, I can’t do this anymore. The color of Emma’s favorite sweater suddenly felt too loud, too bright. Mira shoved it into the back of her closet, letting it fade in the dark.

At forty, pink was healing. It arrived in the form of peonies—soft, full blooms that spilled over the edges of a paper-wrapped bouquet, their scent delicate yet persistent, like a memory that refused to fade. The petals were layers upon layers of silk, unfolding in gentle waves from their golden centers, each one a shade of pink so rich and varied it felt almost alive. Some were the blush of dawn, others the deep rose of a fading sunset, and a few carried hints of cream, as if the color had been kissed away at the edges.

She placed them on the kitchen table, watching as a few stray petals loosened and drifted down, landing like whispers against the worn wooden surface. Their fragrance was sweet, airy, tinged with something green and fresh, and filled the space, weaving through the quiet morning like a gentle reassurance. Mira traced the edge of a petal with her fingertip, marveling at its softness, at how something so delicate could still stand so strong. For years, pink had been pain, had been longing, had been something she pushed away. But here, in the bloom of peonies, it was something else entirely.

At sixty, pink was nostalgia. It was dust-covered memories and the soft hum of the past, waiting to be unearthed. Mira found the tiara buried in a box of childhood things, its plastic gems still catching the light like tiny, stubborn stars. The band was slightly warped from years of being forgotten, yet when she held it in her hands, it felt as if no time had passed at all.

She hesitated only a moment before placing it on her head, the familiar weight settling against her silver-streaked hair. And then, without thinking, she twirled.

The movement was instinctive, as if her body had been waiting for this moment, for this reunion with the girl she used to be. The world blurred around her. Her cozy kitchen, the stacks of books, the framed photos lining the walls all faded away. For a breath, she was five again, spinning in a dress too big, believing in kingdoms made of stuffed animals and bedtime stories.

Laughter bubbled up in her chest, light and breathless, spilling into the empty room. She felt something loosen inside her that she hadn’t even realized she was holding onto. Time folded in on itself, past and present weaving together, the little girl she once was reaching out to the woman she had become. And for the first time in a long time, Mira let herself be both.

At eighty, pink was a legacy. It danced in the sunlight, in the flutter of a pink sundress as Mira’s granddaughter toddled barefoot across the yard, her laughter spilling into the warm afternoon air.

Mira sat in her favorite chair on the porch, a cup of chamomile tea cooling in her hands, watching the tiny whirlwind of energy chase after butterflies. The child’s curls bounced with every unsteady step, her chubby fingers reaching for wings just out of grasp. The butterflies always flitted away at the last second, but her granddaughter never minded. She only giggled, clapping her hands as if delighted by the chase itself.

A gentle breeze rustled the peonies growing along the garden path, their soft pink petals swaying like tiny dancers. Mira had planted them years ago, tending to them with patient hands, never knowing they would one day serve as a backdrop to moments like this. She smiled, feeling her heart expand in that way only love can. Once, pink had been a color she had fought against, a color that had held too many memories, both sweet and painful. Now, it was here, alive and moving, wrapped around the tiny frame of the little girl who carried her smile, her stubbornness, her heart.

Her granddaughter turned then, bright eyes shining as she held out a tiny fist. “For you, Grandma!”

Mira opened her palm, and the child dropped a slightly crumpled pink flower into it, beaming with pride.

Mira laughed softly, her chest full of warmth. She reached out, tucking the flower gently behind the girl’s ear. “You know,” she murmured, brushing a strand of hair from the child’s face, “I used to think pink wasn’t for me.”

The little girl wrinkled her nose. “Why not?”

Mira only smiled, shaking her head. “I suppose I just needed time to understand it.”

The child didn’t question it, only giggled and ran off again, her sundress billowing as she returned to her butterflies. Pink had been love, rebellion, heartbreak, and healing. It had been softness and fire, beginnings and endings. And now, at the end of everything, pink was just a color.

A color that had been with her all along.