Most people think emotions are simple and cannot be coloured.

Happy.

Sad.

Angry.

But no one talks about the colours each emotion represents.

The quiet shades and tones that sit inside your chest while you’re smiling in public. The ones you carry while trying to look like you belong.

Tonight I opened my journal to write about them.

Sincerely, I don’t know when I started seeing my feelings as colours.

Maybe it was the only way I could explain them since sometimes words feel too small.

Colours don’t.

So tonight, I’m writing down the ones that followed me today.

Blue

Blue is the colour that visits me the most.

It feels like sitting near a window while the world continues outside without you. People laughing loudly. People who seem sure of themselves. People who know where they’re going. Blue isn’t dramatic sadness. It’s quieter.

It’s the feeling of wondering if everyone else received a guidebook for life that you somehow missed.

Sometimes I even wear blue clothes because they feel honest.

Yellow

Yellow appears in small, unexpected moments.

A stranger smiling at me.

A song playing at the right time.

Sunlight spilling through my window in the morning as if the day is gently knocking and saying, “Wake up and try again.”

Yellow feels like hope.

Not loud hope.

Just a soft reminder that things might still turn out okay.

Grey

Grey is the colour of blending in.

Of nodding during conversations even when your thoughts feel miles away.

Grey is the smile you wear when you don’t want anyone asking too many questions.

It’s not exactly sadness. It’s not pretense either,

It’s more like carrying a quiet weight that nobody else notices.

You laugh when everyone laughs. You respond when someone speaks to you.

But inside, something feels heavy.

Green

Oh! how i love green

Green is the colour of trying. Trying to grow.

Trying to believe that confusion is not failure.

Green is the part of me that still dreams about the future. The part that believes there is a place somewhere in the world where I will feel completely at home.

Green reminds me that growth rarely happens quickly.

Most of the time, it’s slow and invisible but…it is always there.

Red

Red surprises me. It’s hot, bold, fierce.

It shows up in moments when my heart suddenly becomes brave.

When I say something I normally would have swallowed.

When I stand up for myself.

Red is courage.

It scares me sometimes because I’m not used to it.

But maybe I need more of it.

White

White is the colour I imagine when the day finally ends.

When the noise fades.

When I lie in bed and remind myself that surviving the day is sometimes enough.

White feels like peace.

Not the perfect kind.

Just the quiet kind.

Sometimes I wonder if everyone carries colours like this.

Maybe the girl sitting next to me on the bus has her own shades of blue and yellow.

Maybe the boy laughing loudly with his friends carries a secret grey somewhere inside him.

Maybe we are all walking around with invisible palettes of emotion, trying our best to paint lives that make sense.

Maybe fitting in was never about hiding our colours.

Maybe it’s about learning how to carry them.

Tonight I close my journal feeling a little lighter.

The colours are still inside me.

But now they feel understood.

And tomorrow, I might discover a new one.

Is your colour in my story? If yes, which is it?

As always, read slowly. Let it sit with you. And if you’ve ever felt like Naya, I hope this reminds you—you’re not alone.

This music has been chosen to aid your reading. For the full experience, press play

Naya lived in a house where she was both seen and unseen. Her footsteps echoed in the same corridors as her siblings, but her presence was like background noise—heard, maybe, but never truly listened to.

She had three siblings—Kojo, Efua, and little Sena. Their voices filled the house with a kind of laughter Naya wasn’t part of. Their inside jokes had timelines and punchlines she never got. She was always walking in on moments that didn’t pause to include her.

On Sundays, their “mother” would make jollof or yam , the kind of meals that made everyone peek into the pot before it was even ready. Naya would sit in the living room, working on her laptop or piecing together her dreams in quiet determination. She wouldn’t be asked what she wanted to eat. But she’d hear the others being asked.

“Kojo, should I fry eggs for you or you’ll take sardine?”

“Efua, come and check the stew—is this enough salt?”

“Sena, go and bring me the Maggie cube.”

But her name? Never called.

Once, she’d asked gently, “Please, is there some left for me?”

Her “mother” gave her a look like she’d just asked for gold. “You didn’t even help us in the kitchen. How do you expect to be served?”

So she stopped asking.

She started cooking her own small meals in the evenings, quietly heating leftovers if there were any or eating bread with water when there weren’t. No one noticed.

What stung most were the small, almost calculated exclusions. They’d all be watching TV, and someone would call Kojo to turn on the fan even if Naya was sitting right beneath the switch.

Once, she stood by the fridge, reaching for a bottle of water, when her “mother” walked in and said to Efua, who was across the room, “Please bring me the water from the fridge.”

Naya froze, hand on the bottle.

She wasn’t blind. She wasn’t deaf. She just wasn’t… chosen.

On her birthday, nobody remembered until the evening, when Kojo casually said, “Oh, by the way, happy birthday, Naya.”

No cake. No small meal. Not even a boiled egg with a candle stuck in it.

She’d lie in bed some nights and wonder what she’d done wrong. She wasn’t rebellious. She didn’t yell or break plates. She didn’t steal or lie. She just existed quietly. And maybe that was the problem—quiet people are easy to forget, and even easier to neglect.

One evening, while washing the dishes, she heard them laughing in the hall. “Let’s all go to the new restaurant tomorrow!” Efua said.

“Oh yes! We can get snacks after,” Kojo added.

Naya looked at the bubbles in the sink, blinking away the sting in her eyes.

She hadn’t been invited. Again.

She rinsed the final plate, wiped her hands, and went back to her room, where her dreams still made space for her.

Then one day, something shifted.

She had posted a short poem online. Just a few lines about silence, pain, and invisible love. It got one like. Just one. From a woman named Ama, who left a comment: “This cut deep. You should write more.”

Naya clicked on Ama’s profile. She was a creative writing tutor from Accra. They started chatting. At first, it was about poetry, then about family. And somehow, it didn’t feel strange to tell her everything.

One evening, after reading a story Naya sent privately, Ama replied:

“This is real, Naya. You have something. Promise me you’ll write more—write it all. You deserve to be heard.”

And in that moment, Naya felt it.

Someone saw her. Someone heard her. Someone believed in her.

She wasn’t a stranger in Ama’s space.

And slowly, she started to become less of a stranger to herself too.

For the reader: For the full experience, press play.

This gentle instrumental was chosen to reflect the heart of this piece, calm, safe, and quietly healing. Let it play in the background as you read. Let the softness remind you: we can create homes that feel like peace.

One day, I’ll have a family.

And in that family, nobody will be yelled at or insulted for making a mistake.

There will be no shouting across rooms. No doors slammed out of anger. No child shrinking into silence because their voice has learned to fear its echo. No mother sobbing quietly behind a bathroom door because she doesn’t know how to explain her pain. No father raising his voice because it’s the only way he knows how to feel heard.

I know what yelling does.

Not just to ears, but to hearts.

I’ve seen how one harsh sentence can break a person’s spirit. How a single word, said too sharply, can play constantly in your head for years.

“You’re useless.”

“You’ve ruined everything.”

“Can’t you ever do anything right?”

Words that were said in a second but lived in the mind like squatters, refusing to leave.

In my house, mistakes will not be met with punishment dressed as discipline. They’ll be met with questions. With breath. With softness.

“What happened?”

“It’s okay. Let’s clean it up together.”

“Next time, what can we do differently?”

Because I believe correction can come in kindness. That love does not need to be loud to be firm. That the goal is not obedience through fear, but understanding through connection.

⸻

I want a family where:

• A broken cup doesn’t cost someone their confidence.

• A spilled drink doesn’t lead to three hours of silent treatment.

• A bad grade doesn’t mean anyone’s worth is reduced to a number.

• No one walks on eggshells in their own home.

In my family, there will be room for deep sighs, for forgetfulness, for apologies that come slowly.

There will be room to try again.

We will not be perfect. No family is. But we will be safe and happy.

⸻

Sometimes I imagine the dinner table:

Someone spills water and everyone jumps but not out of fear, but to help clean it up.

Someone forgets the rice on the stove and instead of being yelled at, they’re taught how to set timers and how to forgive themselves.

Someone speaks harshly, and they’re gently reminded, “We don’t talk like that here. Try again.”

We grow. Together.

We get it wrong sometimes. But the consequence isn’t shame. It’s love with boundaries.

⸻

Because I want my children to look back and say,

“I wasn’t afraid at home.”

“I was safe.”

That’s the house I’m building.

Even if I never saw it growing up, I’m planting it now, seed by seed.

A home where nobody gets yelled at for being human.

A home where the only thing we raise is each other.

A home full of joy and peace.

No singing. No calls. No “Happy birthday!” not even a nod from the people I live with.

I brushed my teeth slowly, hoping maybe someone would say something. They didn’t.

By 11 a.m., I had replied to three messages:

• My grandmother had called at midnight. She always does.

• My mother had sent a long message filled with emojis and prayers.

• My boyfriend had texted, “Happy Birthday, love.”

That was enough. Or at least, it should’ve been

The rest of the house moved like it always did shouting over chores, doors slamming, bowls clanging in the kitchen. Not one mention of the day I was born.

I made tea I didn’t want, just to have something warm in my hands. I told myself it didn’t matter. That I didn’t want anything. But when I went back to my room and locked the door, the truth sat with me in silence.

I lay in bed for hours.

Not scrolling. Not sleeping.

Just lying there like grief had taken the shape of a day.

By 4 p.m., I whispered “Happy birthday” to myself.

Then I cried.

Not loud sobs. Not wailing. Just the kind of crying where the tears slide down your ears and into your hair.

The kind of crying you’ve rehearsed your whole life.

I imagined throwing myself a party. I imagined lights, friends, cake, my name on a balloon.

I even imagined what I’d wear, a white dress, gold earrings, barefoot dancing and flipping my hair.

That fantasy got me through the rest of the day.

I whispered to God, “Thank you for life. Even if it hurts sometimes.”

And maybe that’s what growing up is.

Learning to thank God through tears.

Learning to celebrate yourself even when no one else does.

Learning that some birthdays will be quiet. But you still matter.

And next year? I’ll dance. Even if it’s alone.

If you’ve ever cried on your birthday, this is for you. You’re not dramatic. You’re not ungrateful.

You’re just human and wanting to be seen is not too much to ask for.

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