Let’s discuss the color pink for a moment. As a child, I prided myself on my disdain for pink, feeling it was a color that pigeonholed me into a stereotype I never embraced. I was an athlete at heart, fiercely competitive and drawn to sports, which led me to reject any notions of femininity tied to that vibrant hue. This aversion became a badge of honor during my formative years, marking me as a nonconformist. However, as I matured, I came to understand that I could embody both strength and femininity simultaneously. Yet, even now, there’s a part of me that hesitates when faced with something pink, rooted in the fear of perpetuating a stereotype.
Yesterday was the Women’s March on Washington, and I longed to be there, standing shoulder to shoulder with friends to amplify our voices. However, I’ve learned that sometimes, what we want clashes with what is best for our mental well-being. Since returning to school, I’ve felt a resurgence of energy and passion that had been dormant for some time. Just recently, a stomach bug kept me confined to my bed, a scenario that would have thrilled me months ago. Instead, I found myself restless, yearning for connection and activity. My healing journey is ongoing, and I had to recognize that attending such a massive gathering would likely exacerbate my anxiety, potentially resulting in a panic attack.
Accepting my decision to stay home was not easy. Initially, I felt frustrated that my mental health was preventing me from participating in an event that held so much significance. As a sexual assault survivor, I find Donald Trump’s rhetoric concerning women deeply disturbing. The thought of my friends facing increased hostility in the coming years fills me with dread, and I was eager to march in solidarity. Yet, I also grappled with the guilt of choosing my comfort over activism, feeling as though it was an act of privilege.
Here’s what I came to realize: practicing self-compassion and understanding my limits is not selfish. If I had broken my leg, I wouldn’t feel guilty about missing the march. Acknowledging my anxiety as a legitimate medical condition shifted my perspective. Rather than fixating on what I was missing, I sought alternative ways to show my support.
This is how I found myself in downtown Lancaster at 10 a.m. yesterday, with my lips painted a bright pink, joining others at a local rally. I had a fantastic view as I perched on a ledge, watching hundreds of people proudly donning their pink hats, all united in a shared cause. It became clear to me why this march mattered so much. When people from diverse backgrounds come together for a common purpose, something remarkable occurs. The collective energy and hope we generated transcended individual identities, creating a palpable sense of unity.
Thank you, President Trump, for inadvertently fueling our desire to unite. Your efforts to divide us transformed housewives into activists and strangers into allies. Most importantly, you changed my perception of the color pink. No longer a sign of outdated gender roles, it now embodies strength, hope, and togetherness—qualities that no legislation can diminish.
For more insights on navigating fertility options, check out this resource, and if you’re interested in learning more about the journey of home insemination, visit this link.
In summary, I found a way to support a cause that deeply resonates with me, even while managing my anxiety. The experience taught me that activism can take many forms, and one’s journey doesn’t have to look the same as someone else’s to be valid.