The Color We Give Away

There are weeks that feel like conferences.
And then there are weeks that feel like mirrors.

ReBloom was not simply an event on a calendar for me. It felt more like stepping into a greenhouse filled with women in different stages of becoming. Some were blooming wildly. Some were dormant after a hard season. Some were cracked open. Some were quietly beginning again.

And somehow, woven through the conversations, the workshops, the laughter, the exhaustion, the creativity, the tears, the nesting, the repotting, and the sacred act of trying again… there were flamingos.

Not in the loud, kitschy way the world often uses them.
Not lawn ornaments or neon vacation postcards.

But as symbols.

Living metaphors.

Little pink messengers standing in the middle of the week, asking many of us the same question:

What happens when we give so much of ourselves away?

Before ReBloom, I had painted a flamingo.

At the time, I honestly did not know much about them. I was simply drawn to the image. The curve of the neck. The elegance. The softness hidden inside such startling color. Something in me understood the bird before my mind did. That happens sometimes with art. Our hands know things our hearts have not caught up to yet.

The painting came from intuition long before understanding.

Then this week happened.

And suddenly the symbolism of flamingos found me all over again.

I learned that flamingos can lose their color while raising their young. The brilliant pink feathers that make them so recognizable begin to fade because so much of their energy and nourishment is being poured into their chicks. Their bodies literally give of themselves during nurturing. Their color drains as they feed, protect, and sustain new life.

I have not stopped thinking about that since.

Because how many women have done the same?

How many mothers?
Caregivers?
Artists?
Healers?
Partners?
Friends?

How many of us have looked in the mirror after years of pouring into everyone else and quietly wondered where our color went?

Not because we failed.
Not because we were weak.
But because we loved deeply.

That realization landed differently at ReBloom because the entire week seemed to revolve around this idea of repotting.

Repotting is uncomfortable. Anyone who gardens knows this.

A plant can outgrow even a beautiful container. The roots begin circling themselves. Growth becomes restricted. Water runs through too quickly. The thing that once protected the plant eventually becomes the very thing limiting it.

And so you loosen the roots.

You disturb the soil.

You move it.

Not because it is dying, but because it deserves room to continue becoming.

I think many of us arrived at ReBloom carrying root-bound versions of ourselves.

Not ruined.
Not broken beyond repair.
Just confined by old containers.

Old expectations.
Old identities.
Old griefs.
Old stories.
Old versions of ourselves we had long since outgrown.

Some of us have spent years being strong for everyone else.

Some of us learned how to survive so well that we forgot how to rest.

Some of us became so focused on keeping others alive that we stopped feeding the parts of ourselves that once danced, painted, dreamed, wandered, laughed, wrote, sang, created, explored, and rested without guilt.

And there, in the middle of a gathering called ReBloom, stood the flamingo.

A creature that loses color while nurturing life. Yet here is the beautiful part no one talks about enough:

The color comes back.

Flamingos are not meant to stay pale forever.

With rest, nourishment, and time, the vibrancy returns.

I think many women need to hear that.

Especially the ones who have spent years believing depletion is simply their permanent address.

It is not.

You are allowed to recover your color.

You are allowed to become vibrant again.

You are allowed to need replenishment too.

That realization changed the way I looked at the painting I had created before the trip.

When I painted that flamingo, I thought I was painting beauty.

Now I think maybe I was painting resilience.

Maybe I was painting the sacred exhaustion that comes from loving fully.

Maybe I was painting the quiet hope that color can return after seasons of giving.

Maybe I was unknowingly painting women.

The older I get, the more I realize that creativity often arrives before comprehension. Sometimes our art introduces us to truths we are not yet ready to speak aloud. The brush becomes a translator for the soul.

That flamingo painting now feels like a breadcrumb left behind by an earlier version of me.

A reminder.

A prophecy.

A mirror.

Because if I am honest, there have been seasons in my life where I have absolutely lost my color.

Grief can do that.

Caregiving can do that.

Survival can do that.

Building a business can do that.

Holding families together can do that.

Trying to remain hopeful through heartbreak can do that.

You keep pouring and pouring and pouring, believing love means constant output. And one day you realize your spirit feels faded around the edges.

Not gone.

Just dimmed.

And perhaps that is why gatherings like ReBloom matter so much. Not because they magically fix our lives in a weekend. But because they remind us we are not alone in the cycle.

They remind us that seasons exist for a reason.

They remind us that repotting is not failure.

They remind us that women gathering together is not frivolous. It is medicine.

Something holy happens when women tell the truth around tables.

When they create together.

When they laugh from the belly instead of the throat.

When they cry without apologizing.

When they say “me too” and mean it.

When they remind each other that exhaustion is not the same thing as purpose.

When they hold space for both grief and possibility at the same time.

There was something else I kept thinking about this week too.

Flamingos are rarely alone.

They gather in colonies.

They move together.

They protect one another collectively.

Even their nesting happens in community.

That part struck me deeply.

Because somewhere along the way, many women were taught that independence meant isolation. That strength meant carrying everything silently. That asking for help somehow diminished capability.

But nature tells a different story. Even flamingos raise life in community.

Maybe we were never meant to do all of this alone.

Maybe reblooming requires witnesses.

Maybe healing accelerates in safe company.

Maybe becoming is easier when someone reminds you that you are still beautiful even in seasons where your feathers look faded.

I think about all the women who came to ReBloom carrying invisible stories.

The ones rebuilding after loss.

The ones navigating transitions.

The ones rediscovering creativity after years of tending everyone else first.

The ones wondering if it is “too late.”

The ones quietly asking themselves whether they still matter beyond what they produce for others.

And I wish every one of them could understand this:

The fading was never the end of the story.

It was evidence that you loved.

Evidence that you nurtured.

Evidence that you gave life.

But now?

Now it may be time to nourish yourself too.

To rest.

To create.

To laugh.

To make strange beautiful art.

To sit under twinkle lights with women who understand.

To repot your life if necessary.

To loosen the roots around old beliefs.

To step into a larger container.

To allow yourself more room.

To become again… to savor.

I keep returning to the image of that flamingo painting.

What once felt whimsical now feels sacred to me.

Not because flamingos are perfect symbols of femininity or beauty. Honestly, they are awkward creatures in many ways. Long legs. Strange sounds. Gangly movements. A little wild around the edges. Which somehow makes the symbolism even better.

Becoming is awkward too.

Growth is rarely graceful while it is happening.

Repotting gets messy.

Healing gets messy.

Reclaiming your color gets messy.

And still…

The flamingo stands.

Bright against the waterline.

A reminder that what fades can return.

A reminder that nurturing others and nurturing yourself are both sacred acts.

A reminder that beauty is not the absence of exhaustion, but the willingness to bloom again after it.

ReBloom gave many of us more than inspiration this week.

It gave language to things we were already feeling.

It reminded us that we are cyclical beings.

Not machines.

We are allowed to rest after pouring out.

Allowed to evolve.

Allowed to begin again.

Allowed to become more ourselves with age instead of less.

And perhaps that is the real symbolism of the flamingo for me now.

Not simply beauty.

Not simply motherhood.

Not simply color.

But restoration.

The return of vibrancy after a season of giving.

The sacred understanding that what was poured out can also be replenished.

And maybe that is what art has been trying to teach me all along.

Sometimes we paint the lesson before we fully live it.

And maybe that is why I cannot stop thinking about the flamingo painting I created before ReBloom.

At the time, I thought I was simply painting something beautiful.

Now I wonder if I was painting a future understanding of myself.

A reminder waiting patiently for me to catch up to it.

Because after this week, after all the conversations about nesting, repotting, becoming, nurturing, exhaustion, creativity, and growth, I look at that painting differently now. I see layers I did not yet understand when the brush first touched the canvas.

I see the woman who gives deeply.

I see the seasons where color fades.

I see the quiet resilience of continuing to stand in the water anyway.

And maybe that painting is not finished after all.

Maybe it is waiting for new texture.
New color.
New light.

Maybe it needs a few finishing touches now that I understand flamingos better.

And perhaps, if I am being honest…

Now that I understand myself better too.

Because ReBloom reminded me that there are parts of us that do not need to be replaced. They simply need room to breathe again. Room to stretch new roots. Room to recover their color after seasons of pouring into everyone else.

Repotting does not erase what came before.
It honors the growth that made the old container too small.

So maybe I will return to that painting.

Not to repaint her entirely.
Not to cover who she once was.

But to add the wisdom that came later.

A little more depth.
A little more softness.
A little more understanding of what it means to nurture and still return to yourself.

Maybe that is what reblooming really is.

Not becoming someone entirely new…

But finally seeing the beauty, meaning, and sacred survival woven into who you have been all along.

I think she needs her friends :)