Reclaiming Pink On Our Own Terms.

For many of us women, the imposition of pink in our childhood felt unwelcome. It wasn’t just that pink was the color assigned to girls or that we looked undeniably cute in it—it was what the color stood for. It marked us as different from the boys, a quiet but constant reminder that we were expected to be softer, gentler—or maybe, weaker. The words “you throw like a girl” or “stop crying like a girl” reinforced this narrative, reducing our identity to something lesser, something to be corrected.

People treated us differently. Everyone treated us differently. Boys were allowed to be just that—boys. But we, the girls, had limits. No one expected the boys to help with ghar ka kaam, but we were encouraged—no, expected—to absorb these values from an early age. We weren’t supposed to be rowdy, loud, or “boisterous.” We were taught to be quiet, calm, and graceful. Pretty. Pretty in pink.

Over time, I started to detach from pink, pushing away everything it symbolized—everything associated with being a girl and, eventually, a woman. And as we stepped into the world as young women, into offices and boardrooms, we saw these stereotypes persist. Even in workplaces, where merit was supposed to be the great equalizer, there were unspoken rules. Assertiveness in men was seen as leadership; in women, it was labeled as aggression. And so, we adapted. We traded pink for the blacks and blues of the corporate world, hoping that darker colors would make us look more authoritative, more serious. We changed our behavior. We “manned up.” We shed our femininity—yet again—just to be treated as equals, just to be taken seriously. In the process, we suppressed not just the color, but the softer, more vulnerable parts of ourselves.

Thirty years of avoiding pink.
Thirty years of rejecting anything remotely pink and, at times, even judging those who embraced it.

But now, as a grown woman—strong, confident, and sure of who I am—I am starting to see pink differently. I am learning not to shy away from it, not to see it as something that diminishes me, but as something I can reclaim. And ironically, a huge part of this change comes from my husband. A man who is entirely at ease in his own skin, who dismantles gender stereotypes so effortlessly that it leaves people around him shocked—sometimes even uncomfortable. He redefined masculinity for me—not with grand statements, but with small, everyday actions. I see him approach situations with calmness and gentleness, qualities that should be universal but are so often dismissed as feminine. In the office, men tell him to be more aggressive, to be tougher, to fit into the mold of what a man is “supposed” to be. But he refuses to give in to that toxicity. And if he can choose to be unapologetically himself, so can I.

He is helping me reclaim pink.

A color that once boxed me in now feels like something I can wear with pride—not because it defines me, but because I define it. Pink can be powerful, bold, and unapologetic. It can be fierce and feminine, soft yet strong, delicate yet commanding.

Reclaiming pink is not about going back; it’s about moving forward with the wisdom of experience, knowing that strength and softness are not opposites but companions. We no longer need to reject one to prove the other. Pink is ours now, on our own terms.

It is no longer a label forced upon me but a choice I make.