Pink Colored Glasses

By D. Medina

Some like it hot and blunt—sharp truths flung like stones, no sugar or sprinkles. Others prefer a softer delivery, one wrapped in illusion, dressed in metaphors, cloaked in tenderness.

But the question remains: how do you seep your truth? Do you let it spill in moments of rage—unfiltered, feral—or pour it gently through poems and polite silences?

We all wear lenses—tinted, fractured, rose-hued. Some call it optimism, others delusion. But what we see, how we see it, and how we choose to speak about it define the boundary between survival and authenticity.

It sounds poetic, even abstract. But this isn’t just a metaphor — it’s everyday life. It’s how we communicate with others. It’s how we protect ourselves. It’s the invisible filter we apply to challenging conversations, awkward moments, and painful truths. And that’s where the story begins. Not with what we say, but how we say it. Not with who’s right, but with who’s ready.

I’m not here to endow rose-colored glasses.
I’m here to tell it like it is — and how it is.
Because if we keep distorting reality to make it palatable, we risk never facing it at all.

That said, I won’t pretend to hold the universal formula. How we take in truth — and how we give it — is something each of us learns through experience. It’s a personal calibration of instinct, timing, and emotional weather.

But I can tell you how I take mine.

Mine is handled with care, depending on who I’m dealing with. It’s tailored — like a precise prescription, administered with a measured dose of sodium pentothal. Not literally, of course, for those of you wondering. But figuratively? Absolutely.

Some people need the truth coated. Delayed-release. They need it handed to them with a smile, wrapped in understanding because the truth is, after all, a hard pill to swallow.

Too much honesty, too fast, and they shut down. Too little, and they misunderstand. There’s a rhythm to truth-telling — and sometimes, mercy must set the tempo.

And I’ve learned this the hard way.

I’ve been told many times that I can’t do something — that I’m not enough, not social enough, not aligned with what society expects. I’ve been told that if I don’t act a certain way, maybe I need therapy. And I’ve also been lied to — gently, strategically, to soften a blow. But in the end, that kind of dishonesty hurts more. Because it leaves you suspended in a moment that no longer exists, hoping it will somehow be fixed, returned to how it used to be.

These are the kinds of truths — withheld or misdelivered — that shape us. That we eventually learn from. Sometimes, too late.

We like to label people: too blunt, too vague, too much, too quiet. I’ve been called brutally honest. And yes, while I often employ subtlety, I am, more often than not, known to speak my mind. I don’t dress truth up for sport — but I don’t believe in dressing it down to make others comfortable either.

Still, there’s something about that phrase — brutally honest — that doesn’t sit right with me anymore.

Psychology Today offers a striking perspective:

“If we examine the definitions, brutal means ‘savagely violent,’ and honest means ‘morally correct.’”

It’s a powerful reminder of how society has fused violence with virtue in the phrase “brutally honest,” as if the blow is somehow sanctified by the truth it carries
(source).

And we don’t just accept it — we reward it. Social media algorithms elevate those who “say it like it is,” even if it cuts someone down. Reality TV thrives on unfiltered moments of humiliation disguised as authenticity. But truth without compassion isn’t bravery — it’s theater.

In theory, truth should liberate. But in practice, it can wound — not because the truth is inherently harmful, but because of how it’s wielded. “Brutal honesty” is often less about transparency and more about ego — a need to be heard, to be right, to dominate.

It’s honesty turned sharp.
A scalpel with no anesthesia.
A spotlight turned into an interrogation lamp.

There is a fine line between transparency and tactlessness, and an even finer one between authenticity and aggression.

And I walk that line more often than I’d like to admit.

So I ask myself — and maybe you should too:
Am I speaking this truth to connect, or to control?
Am I offering clarity, or seeking validation?
Do I want to be understood — or just heard?

Because intention matters, it matters in how we love, in how we lead, in how we listen. It shapes whether our words heal or harm.

Not all truths need to shout.
Some truths whisper. Some knock softly.
Some are best offered with open hands, not pointed fingers.

We all live behind some kind of lens. Some tint theirs pink — to soften the blow, to preserve the peace. Some shatter theirs — believing that seeing it raw is seeing it real. But maybe the truth isn’t about distortion or destruction. Perhaps it’s about discernment.

The real courage lies not in how we see the world —
but in how gently, how wisely, how bravely we choose to reveal our version of it.

So the next time you find yourself standing at the edge of truth —
Pause. Reflect. Breathe.

And ask yourself:

Am I wearing pink colored glasses… or offering someone a mirror?

Blog Disclaimer

Disclaimer: All reflections and prose published here are original works by D. Medina for Ivy & Ink. This essay is written from a personal, reflective lens and is not intended as professional advice. You may share this piece for non-commercial use only with proper credit to the author and a link back to the original source. Reproduction without permission for commercial or derivative use is prohibited.