It's Time To Explain Why The Pink And The Flowers...

The pink and flowers aren't random...

Once upon a time, there lived a little girl who dreamed of being a princess. She wore all the dresses, all the bows, the pretty shoes, and sparkly things. Imagination was a field she ran through every day, and nothing could take her out of her fantastical dream world.

Until, around age nine, a nearly three-year-long saga of abuse and manipulation began... and her beautiful innocence wilted -- and continued wilting, until eventually... she couldn't ignore the decay any longer.

I was that little girl.

When the abuse started, it went on for several years before I understood what had been happening to me. And that realization -- the loss of my childhood innocence/ignorance -- all but broke me. The world lost its shine, because the ugliness, and quite frankly, what I knew at that moment of revelation was just a glimpse. Instead of telling my parents, or anyone, that people I'd trusted had hurt me, I hid it -- throughout that time, from the very beginning of the abuse, until about a year and a half after it ended. When I did eventually outcry, I didn't want to tell anyone and I wasn't ready to tell anyone -- but I had to, for the safety of me and my family. This was a secret I thought I would take to my grave because I thought I could handle it alone -- didn't want to cause any hurt to my family. My tears were reserved for my pillowcase, and I thought that was enough.

Truth was, I just didn't realize how much it affected me.

After my outcry, my parents immediately took me to counseling and, sometimes multiple times a week, I'd speak to a counselor about my emotions, my experiences, etc. I wrote a lot as an outlet and slowly started to see emotional improvements throughout the years. I got good at recognizing the remaining triggers and dealing with them, rather than suppressing them. I learned to express my emotions, rather than hide them. I learned to be somewhat of myself again.

But in the process, a part of me remained lost in a way no one had recognized -- not even myself. And it wasn't until, quite literally a decade later, that I realized -- despite the years of counseling and healing -- I was still in the habit of hiding.

As a self-preserving mechanism, I developed a hatred for the color pink.

From one day to the next, my dream world of pink, princess, girly, pretty, etc. faded and became a bleak gray that manifested outwardly. I went from wanting everything pink to literally hating that color. I mean, a deep, ugly hatred for this color I had loved ever since I could remember. I became very tom-boyish, opting for more muted colors. I all but stopped wearing dresses, and any dress I did wear was either blue or some other darker color. This change became especially apparent when I was thirteen, fourteen, fifteen -- after I made my outcry.

My parents didn't know why I had this sudden change. My dad came into my life right as the abuse started, and didn't know my personality/style beforehand. He never got to see the girly-girl daughter, so for him, the change wasn't as drastic. My mom, on the other hand, knew something was wrong, just didn't know what. (Because, again, I was unfortunately really good at hiding things.)

I remember Mom and I would get so frustrated at each other when we went clothes shopping. She'd pick out cute, pink outfits, and I'd say something along the lines of: "but it's pink" or "I hate pink" or "can we find a different color?"

And she would ask, "What's wrong with pink?"

"I just don't like it," would be my response.

And more than once when I'd say that, I'd be thinking to myself, What's wrong with pink? Why don't I like it? It's a nice color.

I didn't have an answer. I didn't have an answer for ten years, until recently my parents and I were talking about how I used to like pink, but suddenly hated it. And it dawned on me:

I was still hiding.

As I was going through abuse and healing after it, I lost all confidence. I didn't think I could do anything. I was afraid of being noticed, afraid to make eye contact with anyone, especially men, but women, too. I was afraid of speaking to people -- talking, even one-on-one, was anxiety-inducing. I just wanted to be as invisible as possible and go through life completely unnoticed by anyone outside my family.

But even though I wanted to be invisible, I also wanted to appear "strong," like someone you just didn't want to mess with. It was this desperation to make myself my own safe space. I wanted to be easy to miss, but if you happened to notice me, I wanted to be someone you didn't want to bother. And this came from my dad.

As I said before, my dad came into my life right at the beginning of my abuse. Even though I was withdrawing from my family, I was also getting close to him. Somehow, he just broke my walls -- or some of them, at least. Enough to where I recognized him as the strong, safe person that I wanted to be like. So I started adopting his style (muted colors, rock music, interest in cars/outdoors/etc.) in an attempt to put on this façade of "I'm untouchable," while hiding, inside, that I was so scared. That I was breaking. That who I was kept fading, and wilting, and I didn't know how to get me back. So I tried to hide by looking like I was strong -- when I didn't feel like it.

And pink was the point of weakness I was determined to get rid of.

And it's worked for ten+ years. Until recently, I still hated the color pink. The intensity of my hatred has lessened and lessened, but it was still, "No, I don't like pink." My poor little sister, who is the exact replica of me before the trauma, never understood why I couldn't stand pink clothes. My mom could never understand. No one understood until that random conversation just a few weeks ago. And that conversation made me realize:

I don't have to put up those walls and try to appear "strong" by hating the color pink. I don't have to hide to protect myself anymore. I don't have to be guarded...

So, long story short, pink is my statement of liberation.

And I'm surrounding myself in it -- My Instagram, my website, my logo, my bedding, my room, everywhere. Because you can rise from the ashes of the past and find yourself again, after years of hiding. And healing is possible. Gosh, it's the hardest journey -- it still is sometimes. But there is a beauty that can exist after the trauma -- and that beauty is YOU. You might not be the same as before, but you're someone new and just as precious. There is hope.

And that brings me to the flowers... the roses represent beauty after pain and the daisies represent hope. Daisies became a symbol of hope in my book, "Collector," and that meaning has overflowed into my life. My dad wrote something for book two where a character says, "Look for the little miracles. They make it so much harder to overlook the big ones.”

And this line has stuck with me ever since. It got me thinking... Sometimes God doesn't show up as a burning bush. Sometimes He comes as something as small, but precious, a daisy -- one you might not recognize if you aren't careful. So look for those small blessings and be thankful for them, because it's going to make those bigger blessings that much more beautiful.

There you go! These are the reasons for my new (and probably permanent) theme of pink and flowers. They weren't random designs. They mean so much to me, and I hope that when you see the pink and the flowers, you will remember these three things: you ARE strong and you don't have to hide yourself to be strong, there IS beauty after the pain, and you are NEVER without hope.

Keep Writing (And Dreaming) Always!

-Elizabeth Mae Wolfram