🌷 723 🌷
I wasn’t expecting it. I was just scrolling through old Shutterfly albums and I noticed something I hadn’t seen before:
In almost every picture, I was wearing pink.
Different shades. Different moments. But always pink.
And somehow… I’d completely forgotten how much I used to love it and completely OWN it!
Pink used to feel like me. Soft. Joyful. A little playful. It made me feel warm and feminine and alive, but in a grounded, natural way. When you’re young you just do what feels better without thinking twice about what others will think of you before
I think somewhere along the way, I started editing myself. Even in color.
Maybe I thought I overdid it. Or that it wasn’t “serious” or “cool” or “minimal” enough.
But now I see it differently.
Now I see it as a breadcrumb.
Leading me back to me.
🌀 Back to Myself 🌀
There’s been a feeling I’ve been trying to name for a while now.
It’s not about being perfect or insanely productive.
It’s about presence.
It’s the moment I pause, feel the air move in and out of my body, and remember: this is my life. I’m here. Right now.
And lately, I keep seeing 7:23 everywhere! On receipts, timestamps, random little places.
It’s my birthday.
And when I see it, I stop for a second. It brings me back.
Not just to a day, but to a feeling.
To who I was before I got so tangled up in comparison and control.
To who I still am, underneath all the striving.
Returning to 7.23 isn’t about nostalgia.
It’s about rhythm.
Gut feelings.
Choosing tea over spirals.
Softness over punishment.
Truth over pretending.
🎨 Pink as Permission🎨
I really believe colors hold memory.
And pink, for me, is the memory of permission.
Not loud or pushy, but a quiet kind of yes.
Yes to feeling good. Yes to warmth. Yes to existing without needing to earn it.
I used to ask, “Am I wearing too much pink?”
But now I’m like… too much for who?
Why would I tone down something that makes me feel more me?
Maybe I wasn’t wearing too much pink.
Maybe I was finally wearing enough.
🌿What Returning to 7.23 Looks Like Right Now🌿
Right now, it looks like letting go of perfection again.
I feel excited. Present. Grateful.
And even if old thoughts try to creep in, I can feel something stronger underneath them now.
I’m starting to believe that pleasure isn’t selfish.
That softness isn’t weak.
That color is sacred.
That coming home to myself time and time again is where I rebuild trust with myself and remember more of me.
