It took me a long time to embrace pink as a motif in my life. I always liked it, and I was a massive girly girl from early on. I liked rhinestones and sequins, I liked chiffon and lace, I liked skirts and makeup and all of it.

But my mother, who was a total tomboy, had exactly zero frame of reference for this and even less patience. There was very little pink in the world she provided for me. She yanked my hair into braids more as a way to avoid tangles and less as a fashion statement. She put me in primary-color polyester pants because they shed dirt like Teflon until I rebelled in second grade and we agreed on a shift to blue jeans although I still snuck off in prairie skirts and patent leather shoes whenever she wasn’t looking.

For some reason, my grandmothers never picked up on this conflict. They sent me dresses, but generally in shades of blue or cream. Somehow, I got it in my head that pink just wasn’t a thing that normal people did. It’s funny. I still don’t wear much pink. I have one pink dress that I bought because it was in a cut that I like and one of the three patterns I didn’t have already. (This pattern has been discontinued. I can only hope these dresses last long enough that I don’t need to buy new clothes until I’m into another age bracket and wearing Actual Old Lady Stuff.)

When I was 14, we moved into a new house and I was finally allowed to decorate my room in a way I wanted. Going for the gusto, I demanded that the walls be painted hot pink, more vivid than Barbie doll boxes. This was softened by white curtains, white furniture, and these flower-print cream colored quilts that my mom had made for me years before in an uncharacteristic nod to my girly nature.

I loved that bedroom. If you looked in my window from the street at night while the light was on, it looked like my room was on fire. It took literally three coats of paint to cover up when we sold the house. (This was another valuable lesson, to be honest. I’ve never painted another room that vivid a color.)

For a long time after that, I was at the mercy of college dorms and rented houses. I also had destructive dogs and a limited budget. All the clothes I owned were either black or cautious neutrals for maximum mixing and matching. I hazarded a floral print now and then, but that was it.

When my kid was born, something flipped in me. My girl dog died, so I was the lone girl in a house with a husband, a son, and a boy dog. I started small. I bought pink pens. I bought a pink clipboard. When I got my own office, I got bolder. I bought pink silk flowers and pink glass vases. I played up the pink in my print of the Hallucinogenic Toreador by getting a lamp in a matching color. When I got a larger office, I bought a rug. I displayed some dishes my grandma gave me that had pink roses.

By that time, the gender balance at home had shifted in my favor, albeit in animal form. The hubs and son were outnumbered by me, two girl cats, and a girl dog—not that any of my allies cared about pink or lace, unless it was something they could eat or barf on.

Then COVID hit. I went home. Pink went into storage.

But when we moved, I staked a claim on a downstairs room to be my office. It is a girly delight. All my pinkness is on display, and I got myself a pink office chair and a pink typing keyboard. I have a pink pillow and a pink blanket. It is a lovely space. I almost never go in there these days because I prefer working in bed or on the sofa, but I still go in there to hide, and it still makes me happy.