My Favorite Color Is Not Pink.
From the moment we breathe,
the world welcomes us with weights in our pockets,
but calls them expectations.
To them, we are the ocean,
treacherous and crashing,
as they sit and blame us for the storms and tides.
Before we even know our favorite color, it has been decided for us, but my favorite color is not pink.
A forced destiny from infancy,
as if we are simply born to be locked in a cage and submit.
Some of us are placed in rusted shackles,
some of us in golden nooses,
but a pretty prison is still prison.
A Black daughter is told that even her petals are seen as thorns,
that no matter how hard she tries,
she’s never delicate enough.
An Indigenous daughter carries the stories of her ancestors,
while haunted by the echos of the lives that were stolen from them.
An Asian daughter is folded into paper cranes,
beautiful enough to be admired,
but still crumpled under the weight of expectation.
A Latina daughter stitched from different maps
bridges her culture together,
and as she searches for a home in the space between,
her voice becomes swallowed by assumptions.
A Muslim daughter wears her faith like a gilded crown,
yet is forced to prove her freedom.
A Disabled daughter is pushed to the side,
questioned and judged,
while she watches others obtain the opportunities she deserves.
A Queer daughter spends years trying to find constellations,
only to find that the stars belong to everyone.
An Immigrant daughter travels far,
searching for a place to call home,
only to find that people hold heavy borders in their soul.
All we have ever known is an impossible equation,
be confident, but not bold,
be beautiful, but not vain,
be perfect, but don’t try too hard.
Be everything. And be less.
Don’t get it wrong,
our silence is rewarded,
as long is we take up less than the space that life demands,
but compliance only works for so long before the cage begins to rust.
Women loved,
even when their existence was shamed.
They built resistance,
they formed movements,
they retaliated against the discrimination that defined them from birth.
Oppression fears us,
refuses to let us hear each others stories,
because every voice that persists,
becomes proof that we are more.
Still, we are the ocean,
our voices become the storms,
our stories become the tides,
and we will no longer keep our waters calm for their comfort.
Posted Aug 1, 2026, 3:52 AM UTC