Storm Husbands Copy Editor

In late 2025, Pantone proclaimed ‘Cloud Dancer’ to be the defining colour of this year, an insipid off-white that energised the pitch-fork wielding crowd of Twitter users with disagreement. It’s easy to understand their objection when this past year has felt like a whirlwind of vibrance — Wicked’s green and pink combination, the orange promotion of Marty Supreme, or the teal of Taylor Swift’s eleventh studio album, The Life of a Showgirl. On a personal level, I disagree because my entire life is defined by colour, though this has only become apparent to me recently. Moving to Toronto last autumn was by far one of the most arduous events of my life. Packing my entire room into a sub-23-kilogram suitcase and foregoing a large part of my culture for the likes of hockey and hiking wrecked me in a way I did not think possible. Moreover, during these first few days after my return from sea, sun, and sand, I find myself longing for that familiar blue, yellow, and black of home more than I ever did before.

BLUE draws my mind to the beach, the satisfying sting of the sun on my skin whose rays shine so bright in my eyes I can’t see where the turquoise sea ends and the ultramarine sky begins. It makes me think of snorkelling with sea turtles and scuba diving to see Carlisle Bay shipwrecks. Furthermore, it evokes pride in our dedication to our waters and blue economy, our people often being at the forefront of movements and activism for sustainability and climate justice.

YELLOW feels like warmth, joy, and familiarity. Instantly removing my hoodie the moment I step off of the plane due to the brassy sun beating down, the brightness of my best friend’s smile after seeing her for the first time in four months, or my favourite canary-coloured bathing suit that feels less like spandex and more like a second skin every swim. Yellow goes down like saffron-coloured lemonade, tastes like ochre-hued macaroni pie, and feels like the gold of the setting sun.

BLACK is the colour of the trident, broken in our fight for independence from the British Empire. Jumping, waving, and whining for hours among charcoal shadows feels like me, great houses and windmills of slate stone built on centuries of perseverance feel like culture, and rhythmic soca playing at fetes under ebony skies feels like home. Black is the colour of unity and strength, becoming not only the centre of our flag but also the centre of our people.

Home is colourful, home is bright, and home is vibrant. Leaving is my hardest goodbye and my Bajan upbringing has made it incomprehensibly difficult to find happiness in deluges and snowfall. Toronto often makes me feel unsaturated, turning my brilliant cobalt to sorry indigo, my bright sunflower to muted mustard, and my rich onyx to a dull, lifeless grey. However, I’ve begun to see these colours reflected elsewhere, such as watching our varsity blues win a game, the warmth of dining hall dinners, or dark Friday nights at parties. Sometimes, I’ll even look to the lively city skyline and see the CN Tower shining blue, warm, yellow light from someone’s window, and the black night sky blanketing it all. I don’t think Toronto will ever be home but somehow it welcomes me all the same.