It was truly never about hating pink

 From kindergarten all the way to grade seven, I found myself saying I hated pink—I didn’t really know why. The color itself was pretty; pink reminded me of cherry blossoms blooming in spring, of my mom’s dress as it twirled in the sunlight. And yet, I despised it.

From a young age, I noticed how other girls around me were split into two groups: the ones who adored pink and the ones who mocked it. The girls who loved it wore pink head to toe—bows, backpacks, even shoes—while the others wrinkled their noses and pointed, “Ew, pink, that’s such a girly color.” It didn’t help that boys joined in, laughing at the very sight of pink hair clips or frilly skirts. I was perplexed. I didn’t love pink, but I also couldn’t understand why it deserved such hate. I stood on the sidelines, quietly observing, never understanding why pink was treated like a weakness.

On the first day at a new school, I found myself sitting with a group of fashionable girls, dressed in the latest trends. During recess, the rapid-fire “new classmate” questions began: “What’s your name?” “Where are you from?” Then came, “What’s your favorite color?” Before I could answer, someone from the crowd shouted, “It’s probably pink.” Everyone laughed. Another girl followed up: “It’s not pink, right?” My answer was quick— “No.” It wasn’t a lie; my favorite had always been purple. But the moment felt unsettling. Not because they laughed, but because I laughed with them. I joined in ridiculing something that had never done me harm, and even then, I didn’t know why.

As I grew older, my hatred of pink lingered, but something shifted. At a certain age, you start piecing together the “why.” Pink wasn’t really the problem—it never had been. What I despised wasn’t the color, but what it was made to mean. Pink had become a symbol of everything we were taught to belittle: softness, femininity, vulnerability. To say you liked pink was to admit you were delicate, and to be delicate was to be less.


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