He Healed Me

There was a time when I swore I would never like pink again. It was too soft, too delicate, too much of a reminder of a girl I had long abandoned. Pink belonged to the version of me that believed in fairy tales, that thought love was a safe place, that trusted without fear. But life has a way of turning sweetness bitter, of staining innocence with the weight of reality. I buried pink the day I realized softness did not protect me, that love could hurt, that trust could be broken.

I used to flinch at the sight of it. I used to walk past pink dresses, pink flowers, pink ribbons without a second glance. It reminded me of a girl I had lost, a girl I was too afraid to be again. The world had taught me to be sharp, to be guarded, to choose black and grey over pastels and warmth. It was safer that way. Vulnerability had never been kind to me, and pink felt too much like an invitation to be hurt again.

And yet, here I am, writing about pink, wondering how something so fragile could feel so familiar again. Because he healed me—so deeply, so thoroughly, that I might just like pink again.

He didn’t come with grand promises or poetic declarations. He wasn’t the kind of love that sweeps you off your feet and leaves you breathless. No, he was quieter, steadier. He was the kind of love that sneaks up on you, that plants itself in your chest and grows roots before you even realize it’s there. He was the kind of love that made me feel safe enough to reach for the softness I had long abandoned.

He saw me—the real me, the broken and jagged and guarded me. He never asked me to be softer, never demanded I shed my armor. He just stood there, waiting, patient, unwavering. And in his presence, I found myself unraveling. Not because he asked me to, but because, for the first time in a long time, I wanted to.

It started in the small things. The way he never let silence become a weapon. The way he noticed the slight shift in my voice when I was holding back tears. The way he reached for my hand when my walls threatened to rise again. He was there, always, in ways no one had ever been before.

Some nights, when I couldn’t sleep, I would feel his steady breathing beside me and wonder what it was like to be him—to be so sure, so constant, so full of quiet strength. I had always known chaos. I had always braced for loss, for change, for the rug to be pulled out from under me. But he was different. He was the kind of person who made a place feel like home, who made love feel like something that stayed.

I don’t think I even realized how much he was healing me until one day, I caught myself laughing—really laughing, the kind that shakes your shoulders and makes your stomach ache. And when I looked down, I realized I was holding something pink. It was subtle, almost unnoticeable, but it was there. And I knew, in that moment, that something inside me had changed.

He healed me in ways I didn’t know I needed healing. He healed the part of me that had learned to live without gentleness, the part of me that had accepted that love was supposed to be difficult, painful, fleeting. He showed me that love could be simple. That it could be easy. That it could be kind.

For so long, I had associated love with survival. With effort. With exhaustion. But with him, love felt like breathing. Natural. Unforced.

He made space for me—not just in his life, but in his heart, in his future, in his quiet moments. He never made me feel like I was too much or not enough. He never made me feel like I had to earn his love. It was just there, freely given, like the sun rising every morning without asking for permission.

And in that love, I found myself softening. I found myself reaching for colors I had long abandoned, smiling at pink sunsets instead of turning away. I found myself embracing the parts of me that I had once deemed weak.

Because maybe pink was never the problem. Maybe the world had just made me believe that softness was something to be ashamed of, something that made me vulnerable to pain. But he showed me that softness could also be strength. That gentleness did not mean weakness. That love did not have to be a battlefield.

So here I am, standing in front of a mirror, wearing pink again. Not because I am the girl I used to be, but because I am the woman I have become. A woman who has healed. A woman who has learned that love, real love, does not demand that you harden yourself to survive.

He healed me so hard, I might like pink again. And maybe, just maybe, that is the greatest love story of all.