Let’s dive into the color pink for a moment. Throughout my childhood, I proudly claimed my disdain for it, resisting societal expectations that suggested girls should embrace all things pink and frilly. I was an athlete at heart, thriving in sports, which led me to reject the notion of being feminine. My stance was a form of rebellion, a one-girl protest against stereotypes. However, as I’ve matured, I’ve come to realize that I can embody both femininity and athleticism without compromise. Yet, even now, I sometimes hesitate to buy anything pink due to that lingering fear of conforming to an outdated stereotype.
Yesterday marked the Women’s March in Washington, and I yearned to be part of it. The idea of joining my friends in DC, passionately advocating for our beliefs, was exhilarating. But the reality of my anxiety made it clear that my desire to be there conflicted with my well-being.
Since returning to school, I’ve rediscovered a spark of energy and passion that had long been dormant. I wake up excited about each day’s possibilities. Just a few days ago, I battled a stomach bug that left me bedridden, which I once would have viewed as a perfect opportunity to relax. Instead, I found myself feeling trapped and restless. This newfound enthusiasm reminds me that my healing journey is still unfolding, and it’s why I made the tough choice to sit out the march. While it was a unique opportunity, I knew that being surrounded by a massive crowd would likely exacerbate my anxiety, potentially triggering a panic attack.
Coming to terms with this decision wasn’t easy. Initially, I felt frustrated that my mental health was holding me back from taking a stand in a crucial moment for our country. As a two-time survivor of sexual assault, the rhetoric and attitudes of those in power, particularly Donald Trump, are deeply distressing. I fear for my friends and others who might face increased discrimination in the coming years. I felt guilty about not participating, thinking of it as a privilege that others might not have.
However, I’ve learned that self-compassion and understanding one’s limits isn’t selfish. If I had been on crutches with a broken leg, I wouldn’t feel guilty for missing the march. Acknowledging my legitimate mental health struggles shifted my perspective. Instead of lamenting what I was missing, it inspired me to seek alternative avenues for involvement.
And so, I found myself in the heart of Lancaster City at 10 a.m. yesterday, with my lips brightly painted pink, grinning as the Ukulele Explosion played songs of solidarity alongside hundreds of other protests happening nationwide. From my vantage point atop a ledge, I watched as countless individuals donned their pink pussy hats with pride, united in their commitment to exercising their First Amendment rights.
In that moment, I grasped the significance of this march. Regardless of our differences, when so many people unite for a common cause, something remarkable occurs. The hope and positivity radiating from every single participant created an almost palpable energy. We transcended our individual identities, coming together as one.
Thank you, President Trump. Your attempts to divide us have inadvertently fueled our motivation to unite. You transformed housewives into activists and strangers into friends. Most importantly, you altered my long-held bias against the color pink. What once symbolized outdated gender roles now represents strength, hope, and unity. No legislative action or executive order can ever diminish these values.
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In summary, I navigated my own path to support the Women’s March, finding joy and connection in a local gathering rather than feeling limited by my anxiety.