Purple paint
Purple paint
The simple step of painting a wall can become a radical act of redefinition.
A True Life Built is a living photo essay on starting over and building a truer life. It’s for anyone, at any age, who is finding the courage to begin again. Subscribe for free weekly posts.
I’m painting my hallway purple, the love child of a raspberry and a plum. It reminds me of warm fruit cobblers and summer dinners outdoors. I’ve never painted anything purple before, and that’s the whole point. Purple is extravagant, lush and whimsical—all of the things I never felt free to be.
The hallway, when it was ours, was painted a blue-grey, the color of the sea before a storm. A compromise color, respectable and uncontentious.
This was no longer the way I wanted to live. But as I watched the blue paint disappear, the room tilted and I felt unmoored: How many compromises had I made to keep the peace? How much of myself had I muted?
Unravelling your life is like this. In this fluid state of becoming and unbecoming, the simple step of painting a wall can become a radical act of redefinition.
My ex and I married young, our identities still unformed, and grew together like two trees, our roots impossibly intertwined. Every time I tried to uproot a small shoot of my old life—tried to paint a blue wall purple—I found myself caught in a tangle of memories, trying to unpick where the “we” ended and “I” began.
Had I painted my hallways blue because I liked it, or because it was easier? How many of my choices in the last two decades were truly my own?
Then there was the matter of the white paint to match the existing walls. I vividly remember closing on our Brooklyn apartment on my 30th birthday. I remember sitting on moving boxes, flush with grown-up hopes, and eating pizza on the living room floor. I remember the long discussions about shades of white, animated as only new homeowners can be. I remember having strong opinions.
But I couldn’t remember, in the end, what color we chose.
I texted my mom photos of the swatches. “Decorator’s white,” she texted back. Problem solved. But I was unsettled, because I knew he would have remembered. The gap in my memory nagged at me, like probing a missing tooth with my tongue.
How many of my memories were locked in someone else’s brain? What else had I forgotten?
In any partnership, you divide up the tasks: You do the laundry, I do the bills. You remember people’s names at parties because I always forget. I load the dishwasher because your way is anarchy.
But you also divide up the roles: You are the extrovert, I am the introvert. You take the risks, I keep us grounded. You are the creative one, I am the responsible one.
Every marriage is a balance, but ours had grown rigid over time. Without noticing it, I came to believe that the roles I played were the sum of who I was. And now, suddenly, my core identity is up for renegotiation. It is liberating and disorienting all at once.
Day by day, I’m testing the boundaries of this emerging self. Yes, I love my alone time—and I also love long chats with friends. Yes, I’m established at work—and I’m also taking risks to write. Yes, I’m responsible—and I’m also hoola-hooping and gallery-hopping and plant-swapping and teaching myself watercolors.
If it pleases me, I can even paint my walls purple.
One of the unexpected joys of starting over has been hearing from others on similar journeys. If something resonates with you, I’d love for you to leave a comment, drop me an email or share a post with a friend!
Liz is a writer and photographer based in Brooklyn. She’s spent her career finding the right words for others and now she’s finding her own.
I LOVE your purple wall. Especially the flowers you chose to go with it ;)
What a wonderful delight it is to read this, Liz!! And to witness your emergence is everything.