Love Has a Color
(The Elephant in the Room)
Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. Love does not dishonor; it is not self-seeking. It always protects, trusts, hopes, and perseveres. What color would this kind of love be? Some of us love in black: not because we’re dark, but because everything we once trusted faded on us. Some of us love in yellow: desperate for warmth, starving for attention, hoping someone finally sees us. Some of us love in blue: heavy, quiet, drowning in emotions we never learned how to speak. And some of us love in red: intense, loud, all-consuming, because that’s the only way we ever got noticed. We don’t talk about this. We get into relationships with painted palettes. Paint spilled everywhere. Old fingerprints, old lovers, old disappointments mixed into our foundations. But here’s the raw truth nobody admits: You don’t walk into love as a blank canvas. You walk in colored.
And sometimes the color you’re carrying does not match the person you’re trying to love. That’s where the real war starts. How do you stay soft for someone who only understands love when it hurts? How do you keep showing up when your version of love feels like a foreign language to them? The elephant in the room is that we perform, we bend, we shrink, we contort ourselves trying to “match” someone who isn’t even trying to understand our shade. We call it compromise; that’s the one thing that has always scared me, out of fear of losing myself. But sometimes it’s self-abandonment dressed up as patience. And let’s be even more honest, some of us learned to love from people who didn’t know how to nurture anything: not their traumas, not their children, not their future, not even themselves. So we inherited emotional palettes full of fear, survival, silence, and confusion. And now we’re out here trying to paint masterpieces with crayons that were never ours to begin with.
But growth is disrespectful in the best way. It makes you outgrow colors you used to tolerate. It makes you question the palettes you once accepted. It makes you realize the love you thought was “enough” was actually draining you dry. Love changes color when you do. That’s the part that stings. Because the people who met you when you were dim will swear you’re “different” the moment you start demanding brightness. But here’s the truth: You’re finally visible. And not everyone can handle you in full color. The elephant in the room is not about whether love has a color. It’s that we keep forcing our souls into palettes that do not honor us. It’s that we keep staying in rooms where our vibrancy is treated like noise. It’s that we keep explaining ourselves to people who only understand muted tones.
But here’s the real deal: You get to pick your colour now. You get to pick the shade of love you want. You get to choose the energy you allow. You get to walk away from anyone who dims your light to keep the peace. Real love, the kind that doesn’t exhaust you, isn’t always fireworks. Sometimes it’s just someone who’s not afraid of your fullness. Someone who doesn’t flinch when you show up in your proper shade. Someone who isn’t intimidated by your brightness, your depth, your history, your fire, your color. Love has a color, and this time, you don’t need to apologize for yours.
(The Elephant in the Room)
Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. Love does not dishonor; it is not self-seeking. It always protects, trusts, hopes, and perseveres. What color would this kind of love be? Some of us love in black: not because we’re dark, but because everything we once trusted faded on us. Some of us love in yellow: desperate for warmth, starving for attention, hoping someone finally sees us. Some of us love in blue: heavy, quiet, drowning in emotions we never learned how to speak. And some of us love in red: intense, loud, all-consuming, because that’s the only way we ever got noticed. We don’t talk about this. We get into relationships with painted palettes. Paint spilled everywhere. Old fingerprints, old lovers, old disappointments mixed into our foundations. But here’s the raw truth nobody admits: You don’t walk into love as a blank canvas. You walk in colored.
And sometimes the color you’re carrying does not match the person you’re trying to love. That’s where the real war starts. How do you stay soft for someone who only understands love when it hurts? How do you keep showing up when your version of love feels like a foreign language to them? The elephant in the room is that we perform, we bend, we shrink, we contort ourselves trying to “match” someone who isn’t even trying to understand our shade. We call it compromise; that’s the one thing that has always scared me, out of fear of losing myself. But sometimes it’s self-abandonment dressed up as patience. And let’s be even more honest, some of us learned to love from people who didn’t know how to nurture anything: not their traumas, not their children, not their future, not even themselves. So we inherited emotional palettes full of fear, survival, silence, and confusion. And now we’re out here trying to paint masterpieces with crayons that were never ours to begin with.
But growth is disrespectful in the best way. It makes you outgrow colors you used to tolerate. It makes you question the palettes you once accepted. It makes you realize the love you thought was “enough” was actually draining you dry. Love changes color when you do. That’s the part that stings. Because the people who met you when you were dim will swear you’re “different” the moment you start demanding brightness. But here’s the truth: You’re finally visible. And not everyone can handle you in full color. The elephant in the room is not about whether love has a color. It’s that we keep forcing our souls into palettes that do not honor us. It’s that we keep staying in rooms where our vibrancy is treated like noise. It’s that we keep explaining ourselves to people who only understand muted tones.
But here’s the real deal: You get to pick your colour now. You get to pick the shade of love you want. You get to choose the energy you allow. You get to walk away from anyone who dims your light to keep the peace. Real love, the kind that doesn’t exhaust you, isn’t always fireworks. Sometimes it’s just someone who’s not afraid of your fullness. Someone who doesn’t flinch when you show up in your proper shade. Someone who isn’t intimidated by your brightness, your depth, your history, your fire, your color. Love has a color, and this time, you don’t need to apologize for yours.
and then 