I Hated Pink.

Pink. For as long as I can remember, the color which made me feel most out of place. Not because of its hue, but because of everything it symbolized. In my household, pink was synonymous with “girly,” “pretty,” and “proper”. These were all qualities I was expected to embody but never truly felt I could.

Pink was everywhere: the dresses my mother insisted I wear, the shoes she claimed were “appropriate,” and the sweaters that hung in my closet, unworn and unloved. To me, pink wasn’t just a color. It was a battleground. It marked the line between who I was and who I was supposed to be.

Control Disguised as Guidance

Clothing was never just clothing. It was a message, a signal of identity, and in my mother’s eyes, it reflected her parenting. Her lessons on “how to dress properly” were framed as guidance, but they felt more like demands.

“Wear this dress; you’ll look like a proper young lady.”

“Don’t wear that, it makes you look sloppy.”

“Add some color. You look like you’re going to a funeral.”

Her words weren’t suggestions; they were mandates. Each critique chipped away at my confidence, and each rejection of my choices left me feeling like I had failed an unwritten test. I wasn’t simply choosing the “wrong” clothes. I was, in her eyes, becoming the “wrong” person.

The Weight of Criticism

Her remarks were relentless, lodging themselves in my mind like splinters over time. “You should be ashamed of yourself,” she’d say whenever I dressed in a way that didn’t meet her standards. Shame. It was a punishment for my clothing choices and my very being.

I remember the day I proudly wore a dress I had picked for myself — a simple, patterned sundress that felt like me. Her reaction was immediate and sharp:

“That’s what you’re wearing? You want people to laugh at you?”

Her words echoed in my mind long after that day. I stopped trusting my taste, my style, and eventually, my judgment. It wasn’t just a dress, it was a symbol of everything I would second-guess from then on.

The Dress That Broke Me

Years later, I was invited to a wedding. I knew I’d have to find something “appropriate” to wear, and the mere thought filled me with dread. I spent hours searching my closet, trying on one dress after another, only to be met with a familiar feeling of inadequacy.

Eventually, I pulled out a pink dress — one of my mother’s “gifts.” The tags were still on. It hung there like an unspoken challenge. I put it on, stood in front of the mirror, and felt like a stranger to myself. The reflection wasn’t me, it was a version of me crafted by someone else’s vision.

The weight of it all hit me. I sat on the floor, surrounded by discarded clothes, and cried. I didn’t attend the wedding.

Claiming My Style

That moment didn’t spark an overnight transformation, but it made something clear: I had spent years wearing what other people wanted me to wear, and it had cost me my sense of self. If I was ever going to feel whole again, I had to reclaim that part of me.

So, I started small. I wore what felt right, not what was expected. I traded in restrictive dresses for loose shirts and jeans that felt like armor. I experimented with textures and colors, finding joy in my rediscovery journey. Each outfit became a step toward reclaiming my identity.

Not every choice was a success. I made mistakes and tried styles that didn’t fit, but at least they were my mistakes. Over time, I learned that fashion wasn’t about getting it “right.” It was about freedom.

Estrangement as a Lifeline

Estrangement from my mother wasn’t a decision I made lightly. For years, I convinced myself she didn’t mean to hurt me — that her words came from love. But love doesn’t wear you down until you doubt your every decision. Love doesn’t silence you.

Choosing estrangement was a form of self-preservation. It wasn’t easy. There were days of grief, guilt, and second-guessing. But there was also relief. I finally understood that my peace of mind was worth more than the illusion of family harmony.

Estrangement isn’t an escape, it’s a confrontation with everything you’ve been taught to believe in. Everything about family, loyalty, and duty. It’s facing the unsettling truth that some bonds need to be broken so that you can breathe again.

Rebuilding My Identity

Without my mother’s voice in my ear, I began the long, painful process of rediscovery. I’m learning to see myself without her shadow looming over me. It’s an ongoing process, one that’s far from finished.

I’m still unlearning the old scripts. I’m learning to nourish my body without judgment, dressing for comfort and joy rather than approval. Each morning, when I choose my outfit, I choose for me, not for her.

Some days, her voice still echoes in my mind. I’ll wear a sweater and hear a phantom critique: “You look like you’re going to a funeral.” But I breathe through it. I remind myself that my choices are mine alone.

Reclaiming Pink

Do I still hate pink? Not entirely. I no longer see it as an enemy. I’ve even allowed it into my wardrobe, not as a concession to my past but as a declaration that it no longer controls me — a pink blouse, a blush-toned scarf — small but symbolic acts of rebellion.

These aren’t acts of forgiveness. They are acts of reclamation.

Dressing for Myself

There’s no tidy end to this story. Self-acceptance isn’t a neat resolution; it’s an ongoing journey. Some days, I still feel like the child standing in front of a mirror, unsure of her reflection. But there are more days now when I look at myself and see someone who is becoming whole.

This isn’t a story of victory, it’s a story of growth. The person I’m growing into doesn’t need to love pink, but she no longer fears it. And that, for now, is enough.