An Ode to Yellow
On the unexpected things we gain from healing
A content warning: this post is anchored in my experience of childhood sexual abuse. It is not graphic, but may certainly be hard to read or may activate prior trauma. Please take care of yourself and your own wellbeing.
My childhood bedroom had walls the color of sunshine and daffodils. I was still just a baby when my family moved into that house, so my mom picked the color and the decor to be suitable as a nursery and as a guest bedroom. As the youngest in my family, I was the first to be relocated in the event of guests staying over… which is also why, even as the youngest, I had a queen-sized bed as soon as I had outgrown my crib.
My mom loved that room — still loves that room — with its happy yellow walls, warm oak furniture, and blue and yellow floral duvet. She often recalls that room design with a dreamy nostalgia that makes my entire insides seize because I love my mom but I hated that room.
Although the very first instance of my being abused is unfortunately seared into my memory, the timing of it all is a little murky. What I do know is this: sometime before I started kindergarten, I had a playdate with a boy who was my age in my neighborhood. He was one of my best friends growing up, and he was also my abuser. Most of the abuse happened at his house, hidden away from adults who never would’ve imagined something like this could be happening. But one specific day, probably pretty early on, he came over to my house. We played in my sunshine room with the door open, which was a house rule, so eventually he told me we should hide under my bed.
Under the big queen bed meant for guests we went — we were little enough to fit. All that remains in my memory is legos scattered on the floor of my bedroom and an out-of-body experience filled with the buttery yellow of the paint on my walls.
My mom was baffled as to why I had developed a sudden, vehement distaste for the color yellow. I hated it - and I made sure I took every chance I got to tell her, insisting yellow was for babies because that was the only explanation I could possibly offer. I had sworn I wouldn’t tell about what my friend was doing to me and I didn’t have the language to describe the actual deep-seated dark feeling inside me which was now conveniently represented by my happy, sunshine-y, yellow walls.
First, my mom tried to update the duvet and the drapes. Apparently, my hatred of yellow coincided with some problems sleeping (duh, in retrospect) so along with new bedding, they moved the queen bed out and two twin beds and my older sister in. I’m not sure if I slept better… and the walls were still yellow.
When my sister was old enough to really need her own space, my mom surprised me by repainting and redecorating my room. Not yellow. If my memory serves me, I cried when the walls were finally a different color.
My hatred of yellow persisted beyond my bedroom walls. I hated yellow in the same way I hate certain cherry-flavored candy that reminds me of childhood cough medicine — it left a bad taste in my mouth.
Into adulthood this aversion persisted, but it wasn’t until recently that I drew the connection.
For as long as I can remember, I’ve been drawn to blues and greens, fine with most other colors, and absolutely avoidant of yellow. When I started therapy in 2019 after finally recognizing that I had been abused, I had to work through specific memories in EMDR that dealt with bright pink, but yellow never came up so I didn’t realize the significance at first.
And yet in 2021, after wrapping up most of my EMDR work, I was looking to buy some artwork for my house. I was surprised to find myself drawn to the work of Rani Ban, whose prints are often black and white with a yellowy-orangey accent. A gateway yellow, as it were.
I wrote about my abuse publicly in National Catholic Reporter, and because I was writing that article I told my mom about the abuse for the first time. I chose a phone wallpaper by Morgan Harper Nichols that had a yellow, orange, and red sunshine and “you are loved” and “you are seen” written between the rays.
I got more comfortable with abuse being part of my story and found courage to share more openly. I stopped actively wishing it away. I picked out a yellow frame for a print and yellow taper candle holders for my mantel.
I realized that part of my call is to engage this work precisely because it is my experience. In the Stanley craze, I chose a yellow Stanley for my bedside table.
I started and finished a Doctor of Ministry program and studied trauma and trauma-informed care, knowing that I had the unfortunate wisdom of proximity and a gift of naming to contribute and hopefully help others. I’m planning to paint one of the window frames in my house yellow.
As my research on trauma confirms, healing — especially from years-long childhood sexual abuse — is not a linear path. There are days where something catches me off guard and I have to work very actively to be patient and caring with myself as I work to regulate myself back to baseline. There are still things I’m learning about my experience and the coping mechanisms I developed to survive through those years. But when I found myself telling a friend this spring that I was “really having a yellow moment” and remarking at how surprising that was given how I’ve “always hated yellow,” a missing piece clicked into place. For all the things that trauma took from me, I hadn’t realized that yellow was among them.
My mind flashed to the yellow of my childhood bedroom walls, and I realized that yellow no longer served as a vessel to hold all the darkness my little self didn’t have words for.
I have found other places to hold that darkness and to work through it. Through writing, EMDR, therapy, and supportive community, I have learned to come right up next to my experiences even when it isn’t easy or comfortable.
As it turns out, I love yellow. And now, instead of darkness, yellow gets to be what it should: one of my favorite colors, the color of sunshine and flowers, warmth on my skin after a dark winter, glowing in my soul and in accents around my house — an incandescent welcome home.
Welcome back to yellow!