In Colourblind (2013), singer-songwriter Natalie Wilson traces the subtle ache of trauma not through scream or breakdown, but through quiet dissociation. The song unfolds like a confession whispered to oneself in the dark: a realization that somewhere along the way, the world lost its colour.

From the first line, “Taught not to cry, so I painted on a face,” Wilson’s lyrics evoke the kind of childhood where survival meant silence. Beneath its soft piano and restrained vocals lies a deep grief, like the kind that doesn’t shout, but numbs. Colorblind is not about an isolated event; it’s about the lingering aftermath. The dulling joy. The flattening of feeling. The internal has gone grey.

Wilson, who has spoken about her experiences with emotional neglect and complex trauma, uses this track to give voice to what many survivors struggle to articulate: how easily pain can become invisible. There are no visible scars, only a muted palette where once there was vibrancy. Yet, the song resists despair.

“I’m not broken, I’m unfolding / And every shade I find is mine.”

In the lines, healing is not romanticized; it’s reclaimed. The song doesn’t promise resolution. Instead, it suggests a process: slow, nonlinear, and deeply personal. The metaphor of colour becomes an invitation. To feel again. To name what was unnamed. To live in a body that had once become a stranger.

What makes Colorbind quietly radical is its refusal to demand resilience in the form of productivity or cheerfulness. But that weariness is not a failure. It is a testimony. Wilson’s voice doesn’t beg for understanding; it offers it.

Trauma can desaturate life, but Colorblind dares to hold space for that numbness, and then gently suggests that feeling, full-spectrum, tender, even painful feeling, might one day return. Not through force. Not through forgetting. But through patience, and the slow work of coming home to yourself.

Listen to Colorblind by Natalie Wilson here