Colours of Resilience

I remember the first time I walked through the narrow streets of Dominica. The sun had barely settled over the Caribbean, but the colours—oh, those colours—were already alive. Rows of houses, each brighter than the next, in shades of cobalt blue, sunflower yellow, and flamingo pink. It was like walking through a living canvas, brushstrokes of survival and joy. The heads of children bent as if they carried the weight of the world, punishment for just being.

I asked an old man sitting outside a café, his face weathered by decades of salt air and slow afternoons, “Why so much colour?” He chuckled, sipping his cocoa tea. “Because, my friend, life hard, so we make it bright." And that stuck with me.

I’ve seen it everywhere—Havana’s backstreets bursting with neon greens and fiery oranges, the chattels clinging to the hillsides of Jamaica like a rainbow in defiance of gravity, the dusty side streets of Mexico lined with houses painted in hues that could blind you under the midday sun. These places, the so-called impoverished corners of the world, wear colour like armour, like a celebration.

Contrast that with the leafy suburbs of the wealthy—the Hamptons, Beverly Hills, Rosedale in Toronto. Muted greys, soft taupes, whites so pristine they barely whisper. The wealthier the neighbourhood, the quieter the colour. Money doesn’t need to shout; it hums in soft undertones, understatement.

But in the neighbourhoods where struggle is real and dreams are forged in the fire of daily grind, colour is a necessity. It’s a message to the world: We’re still here. It’s resilience in the face of a leaky roof, unpaid bills, and the weight of generations past.

I saw it first as a kid, growing up in Jeffersonville, when we’d take family drives down south. Our neighbourhood was humble but lively—front doors painted in camouflage grey, porches adorned with embroidered curtains in compromised patterns. Sometimes the imagination of a creative mother. The downtown, in the 1950s working colours, everything faded into a palette of whites and beige, perfect lawns framing faceless homes. Even as a kid, I wondered—where were the bold colours? Where was the life?

It’s not just about affordability—sure, bright paints might be cheaper, but deeper than that. It's about the people, the culture. When you’re up against the world, you fight back with whatever you’ve got—music, dance, food, and, yes, colour. Paint that wall electric blue because it might just make the morning a little easier to face. Drape the house in warm golds and tangerine hues, because when you’ve got little, you make the most of it.

Havana, a city of ghosts and music, where the past lingers like the scent of strong espresso in the air. It was in the home of the originator of the rumba, a place that felt frozen in time, steeped in the echoes of a thousand rhythms. The walls were stained with the residue of a hundred nights of celebration, and the heavy, humid air carried whispers of long-forgotten melodies.

In a room off to the side, away from the chatter and the slow, pulsing beat of the drums, sat an old woman. She was a relic of another era, draped in shadows that seemed to wrap around her like a well-worn shawl. A tiny Christmas tree, its plastic needles bent and frayed, stood defiantly on the table before her, twinkling weakly against the thick haze of cigarette smoke that filled the room. Red, blue, yellow, and green. The lights flickered on and off, as if to say, all is well. All is on hold until tomorrow. She watched me through the swirling fog, her eyes sharp yet weary, as if they had seen too much and forgotten nothing. The soft hum of a bolero drifted in from the next room, mingling with the distant laughter of strangers.

Maybe it’s about joy. Maybe it’s about defiance. Maybe it’s just about standing out in a world that tries too hard to blend in. Whatever it is, it’s beautiful.

And that’s why, wherever I travelled—whether it’s Havana, Montego Bay, Cozumel, Speightstown in Barbados or beyond my range in the poorest neighbourhoods in India, South Africa, or Colombia—I find myself drawn to the colours. They tell a story richer than money ever could. A story of people who don’t just exist, but live.

And they live loud.

The walls of my office are framed in a meditative shade of orange, serving as the perfect backdrop for every vibrant item that greets me with its own story, inviting focus and inspiration. Colour soothes the soul, instills confidence, and welcomes with open arms.