Let’s chat about the color pink. As a kid, I took great pride in my distaste for it; I was determined not to conform to the stereotype of liking something simply because I was a girl. I was all about sports, and in my black-and-white childhood world, I chose the title of “athlete” over “girly girl.” My disdain for pink turned into a one-child protest. But as I grew older, I realized I could embrace both my femininity and my athleticism. Yet, I still hesitate when buying anything pink, as that old fear of reinforcing a stereotype lingers. The truth is, the person I’ve become can’t be pigeonholed by colors or sports. Those are just tiny glimpses into the wonderfully complex individual I’m learning to love.
The Women’s March and My Decision
Yesterday was the Women’s March on Washington, and I longed to be there, standing shoulder to shoulder with friends, shouting for our beliefs and making history. But sometimes, what we want and what’s best for us don’t align. Since returning to school, a spark of energy and passion has reignited within me. I wake up eager to embrace the day, and even a recent stomach bug that once would’ve felt like a perfect excuse to lounge in bed turned into a day of restlessness and longing for freedom. While I’m thrilled about my progress, I know my healing journey is still in its early stages. That’s why I opted to stay home.
Initially, I struggled with my decision. My anxiety often leaves me feeling trapped in large crowds, and I know that in a sea of people, my anxiety would skyrocket, likely culminating in a panic attack. As a two-time survivor of sexual assault, I find Donald Trump’s comments and views on women deeply disturbing. It terrifies me to think about what my friends might face in the coming years. As an American, I’m saddened by the notion that our country isn’t already great. I wanted to march for these reasons, and I felt guilty that my choice to stay home was an act of privilege or selfishness.
Recognizing My Limits
But here’s the thing: recognizing your limits is not selfish. If I’d broken my leg and was on crutches, I wouldn’t feel guilty about missing the march. Acknowledging that I have a legitimate medical condition helped shift my perspective. Instead of focusing on what I was missing, it inspired me to seek alternative ways to show my support.
So, there I was, bright pink lipstick on, beaming as I stood in Lancaster City at 10 a.m. while the Ukelele Explosion played songs of solidarity, aligning with countless other protests nationwide. From my perch atop a ledge, I watched hundreds proudly don their pink pussy hats, united in their commitment to stand for their rights.
The Power of Unity
In that moment, the significance of the march hit me. When so many individuals from diverse backgrounds rally for a shared cause, it creates something extraordinary. The collective hope and positivity radiated from every participant, forging an almost tangible energy. In that space, our differences faded, and we became one.
So, thank you, President Trump. Your divisive efforts inadvertently motivated us to unite. You transformed housewives into activists, fathers into feminists, and strangers into allies. Most importantly, you shifted my lifelong aversion to pink. No longer does it symbolize outdated gender norms; instead, it now represents strength, hope, and unity. And try as you might, no legislation or executive order can strip us of these ideals.
Resources for Support
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Conclusion
In conclusion, my decision to stay home from the march was a personal choice rooted in self-awareness, not selfishness. Finding alternative ways to participate in the movement helped me embrace my identity and support my fellow activists from afar.