When the Sun Is Black and the Unicorn Wears Leather

For most of my life, black wasn’t a colour.

It was an outline. A formality. A warning. A “don’t mess with me” boardroom blazer.

It was what you used to frame the real colours — not the colour itself.

I used black to highlight, emphasize, underline — but never to celebrate.

It was the boss of all colours. Strict. Silent. Always showing up to meetings. Always saying,

“Let’s get to the point.”

Black was never joyful. Never dancing.

Black didn’t giggle. It presented PowerPoint slides.

Until my 5-year-old came along.

She walked into the room like Picasso after a sugar rush and announced:

“Mama, the sky is black today.”

“My unicorn is black.”

“And this is my house — it’s all black. Pretty, na?”

Pretty?!

I stared at her drawing like I’d just been handed a Rorschach test by a Disney princess.

Her trees are black. Her sun is black.

Once, even the cloud was black and the rainbow was missing — because “rainbow went to nani’s house.”

In her world, black isn’t dark. It’s deep.

It’s not moody — it’s magical.

Black isn’t a warning. It’s a welcome mat with glitter.

While I wore black to look serious,

She colours her world black to look free.

Her sky doesn’t follow Pantone. Her joy doesn’t follow logic.

Black, to her, is not a void.

It’s a choice.

A colour with confidence.

Not begging to be liked, not worried about standing out — because it already does.

And me?

I’m still figuring out how to wear yellow without apologizing.

But she? She’s out here painting sunshine in black and making it work.

She showed me that black doesn’t just hide — sometimes, it holds.

Sometimes, it shines.

And maybe, just maybe…

Next time I pick a crayon, I won’t skip the black one.

I might even colour my happy house black — and give it a glittery door.

Because now, thanks to her, I finally see it:

Black is not the absence of colour.

It’s the confidence to be one.