Color Theory

Anastasia Miller '26

There is a version of me only the color red really knows. But that version of me isn’t all I am anymore. The crimson of my blood, hidden behind beads; the scarlet of my journal, words crammed inside; the mahogany of the sweaters I used to hide my once-hardened ruby heart.

I have a little red journal, gifted to me for Christmas in 2018, when I was 10 years old. I didn’t realize how much I had changed until I lifted the cover hiding my life, the binding of my scarlet journal holding the deepest parts of me together.

The parts of me that my father's red-hot wrath of anger lashed at dove into its pages. His anger awaited me when I got home; he, who saw only red, evoked a panic in me, a version of myself only his cadmium anger knew. This panic and fear didn’t solely live at home, it seeped into my mind like rain through an open window during a storm.

Rain didn’t just seep in— it watered the fear rooted in me. That fear became seeds as I grew older, seeds that grew into words, and words that grew into gardens of carmine flowers, poems only my scarlet journal knew. Over the fourteen years of storms, the windowsill warped and twisted from water damage, but I didn’t realize how much until I finally tried to open it again. I had been holding that metaphorical window shut for years, terrified of what I might see opened it again.

As much as I tried to pretend like everything was normal about it, deep down, I knew it wouldn’t budge unless I tore it all out and rebuilt it.

Only after my father left did I let myself investigate the possibilities of what could be hiding behind my windowsill. Letting the first 14 years of my life define the rest wouldn’t change what happened. And so I present to you not my post-traumatic stress, but the enlightenment that came with breaking out of that environment.

When I finally opened my eyes to all the damage done, I realized the storm had passed—and it had been gone for a long time. Because I was so focused on holding my window shut, afraid of having to rebuild everything, I never thought to check if, maybe this time, the skies were clear.

As I looked deeper into the walls of my mind, I found the rose-colored glasses of an innocent childhood, from before he started chipping away at me, lying broken and embedded in the house of my memory. In some ways, I thought maybe if I let him crush them enough, I could just pretend they were never there. 

Now, I choose to see the softer pink in things, not like glasses tinted with naivety, but lenses crafted with care to view the world gently. The red in my life that held my voice in its iron grip—the crimson, scarlet, mahogany, carmine, rabid-red representing fear and silence isn’t so harsh anymore. I let the sun nurture the seeds of ideas that now grow into blush, rose, and fuchsia flowers, reflecting who I’ve become. I write to let others see me for who I am. I no longer need a scarlet notebook, because my gardens of poems now live on my lips instead of lines, published and alive. I wear my heart not in mahogany sweaters, but on my sleeves. Red doesn’t know me well anymore, but the pink peace I’ve created.

When I look out the window today, I’m not preparing for rain—I’m checking for sun.