It was my last year of high school that I saw the first time that something was different in me. Initially, I assumed the whole thing was just exam stress. But with time, I got it was much bigger than that.
Once I was in the garden behind our house. My mother had planted hibiscus, bougainvillea, and roses. I used to enjoy sitting there very much. The colors were always my mood boosters. However, on that day, I looked at the flowers and they seemed all to be the same lifeless, washed out, empty.
My little cousin David was playing nearby. He came running to me, as always, full of energy.
"Why are you just sitting there doing nothing?" he asked.
"I am tired," I told him.
He made a frown. "No, you look sad."
I smiled weakly back at him. "I am okay."
But I wasn't.
That was the start of what I now refer to as the gray days. It was as if life had lost all its colors. The things that I used to love painting, reading, and even watching the sky in the evening didn't give me any pleasure anymore.
One Sunday after church, my sister asked me, “Why didn’t you talk to anyone today? Not even your friends.”
“It was just that I didn’t feel like it,” I replied.
She was not satisfied with my reply, "You don't look like you these days, what's the matter with you?"
If I only had the words! How to show that everything is gray? Even the brightest things do not seem bright to you? So I remained silent.
Everything was going down hill in school. Although I attended the classes, I just didn't get it. My grades plunged. At night, I would silently sob trying to unravel the knot of my inner self. Why was I unable to experience joy like others? Would this feeling ever come to an end?
One afternoon, David came back into my room. He watched me for a while before asking, “Did someone take your colors away?”
He just nailed me with his words. It was exactly the right feeling. It was like someone had taken all the colors away, and I was left with gray shadows. I really wanted to agree with him, yet I replied, “Maybe.”
I couldn't get his words out of my head that night. Were your colors taken away? The question kept coming back to me.
Nothing changed after a few weeks. There were mornings when I really felt like I didn't want to get up and go through the day. On some days, I would put on my best smile and pretend that everything was okay; however, deep inside, I felt hollow.
While I was cleaning my desk one Saturday, I came across my old watercolor set. The brushes were all stiff, the paints were dry, but still, I felt the need to test them out. I put a paper in front of me and grabbed the brush with the color.
My initial scribbles were untidy, however, as I continued to paint, something awakened in me. I painted a flower, then a sky, then some random shapes. A spark was ignited in me for the first time in months.
I continued to paint. In the evenings, I would paint by the window my mother’s garden, sunsets, or simply color lines. The appearance of the painting was not important. The fact that some part of me was reawakening was what counted.
David noticed it before anyone else.
“You’re smiling again,” he said one evening when he saw me painting.
“Maybe my colors are coming back,” I told him.
He grinned. “I knew they would.”
Bit by bit I began to open up. I confided to my sister that I felt hollow. I shared that feeling with my teacher who I trusted. I was writing a journal, releasing all my thoughts. It was difficult every step, but each of them made me feel less burdened.
Not all days were good. There were some mornings that were still dull. However, the fact that it didn’t last forever had become clear to me. Art rekindled my faith. Speaking and writing also made me feel better.
One evening, I painted the hibiscus from the garden. Its red petals looked brighter on paper than in real life. When I compared the two, I realized something important. The colors had never really left. It was my eyes that had stopped seeing them. Depression had blurred my vision, but the beauty was still there.
Looking back, I don’t see that season as wasted. It taught me something valuable. Life can lose its color. Pain can make everything feel gray. But the colors are never truly gone. They wait for us to find them again.
Even now, when I feel low, I go back to painting. Flowers, skies, simple strokes it doesn’t matter. Every brushstroke reminds me I am alive. I can choose color, even on the hardest days.
And whenever I see the hibiscus in my mother’s garden, I smile. Its red petals shine as brightly as they always did. And I know, no matter how gray life gets, the colors will always return.