The private cab company, Pink Taxi, was backed by the Mexican government late last year in an attempt to help women feel safer taking cabs. And a lot of feedback has been positive. A 17-year-old student named Melissa Ayala said in an interview, "Mexico is going through a difficult time; insecurity is part of our lives. The fact that these taxis can be found outside nightclubs makes our parents more comfortable. It was the first time I sat back and relaxed in a cab." Twenty-one-year-old passenger Joss Roco agreed with the need for harassment-free transportation, stating, "It's uncomfortable to ride with a man who looks at you like a sex object just because you're wearing a skirt; I felt calm and confident being driven by a woman."

In addition to making women feel secure hopping in a cab, the service has helped empower spades of women drivers by opening employment opportunities and dispelling stereotypes in this machismo-driven culture that women can't drive or fix their vehicles. Rocio Nava, one of Pink Taxis' 60 drivers, said that her training included 180 hours of defensive driving, self-defense, and basic mechanics.

Still, for all the praise the women-only taxis have gotten, feedback isn't always all roses. For one thing, many are galled by the chosen color, vibrant pink, and state that the fact that each cab is equipped with GPS and a make-up kit does more to cement negative connotations of women rather that help them. 

Despite all this, women-only taxis only seem to becoming more popular, not less so. Puebla intends to expand its fleet to 300 cabs, and similar services have cropped up in locations as far away as Lebanon and Moscow. And women seem to be responding. Ayala said, "I was eager to use Pink Taxi not only because it's safer, but also as a way to support other women who are trying to improve their economic situation." 

Lara Gabrielle Blanco Heintz

Lara Gabrielle Blanco Heintz

In the past few years, breast cancer awareness has exploded into our social peripheries and now ranks in the pantheon of social causes with the likes of global warming and the War on Terror. Originally championed in the 1970s by First Lady Betty Ford, who underwent a mastectomy, breast cancer today extends even into the reaches of the NFL, where certain games are dedicated to the cause and players this season can be seen donning hot pink cleats and sweatbands.

It's easy to get swept up in the hype for searching for the cure, but when the word "pink" begins having just as much social impact as "going green," many people start to wonder where the line of finding a cure ends and plain social cause marketing begins.

It's an odd phenomena, the idea of "going pink," because breast cancer, like any other potentially fatal illness is, at the end of the day, quite a personal matter. And while there are many phenomenally strong and publicly proud breast cancer survivors out there, there are many who are still privately trying to come to terms with something that left them physically and emotionally scarred.

My aunt, who underwent a mastectomy to treat breast cancer in 2005 and then recently underwent a second one to treat a recurrence, said she didn't feel comfortable participating in breast cancer awareness events because "I don't feel yet like it's even really something I had."

It's easy for companies to develop pink products and donate profits for research, but the question then arises: Where does this money go exactly? With all this hype, are we actually closer to finding a cure? After all, breast cancer marketing offers companies an easy bandwagon to jump on, and buying "pink" is something that has indeed become very en vogue.

At the end of the day, I don't have the answers to these questions, and I don't doubt that much of the finances generated by "going pink" have helped pave the way for at least more social acceptance of the disease. If anything, the pink campaign has given survivors who want it an open platform to discuss a disease that was once considered taboo.

It's easy to get swept up in the hype of Breast Cancer Awareness Month, but the fact that this exists also begs us to look beyond wearing pink ribbons and buying hot pink laptops. Much like the "green" campaign, such social tidal waves that become brands almost in and of themselves ask us to look beneath the material surface into other ways we can recognize problems and discuss them in a meaningful way.

As social causes become marketing brands, we risk not only diluting the solutions for the problems we are trying to fix (after all, buying organic food will help the environment, but even the regulations for these have become so convoluted and the organic industry so large, it's now guilty of many of the faults and carbon footprints it originally stood against).

I'm in no way criticizing what hard-won victories many of the champions of the pink movement have accomplished. But while such campaigns raise awareness, it's important to not forget how exactly your pink dollars are helping the cause and the root of the movement, which is not complicated make-up campaigns or large benefit walks or glossy Cosmo covers or guitars autographed by Melissa Ethridge. It's cancer. In all forms. It's the private moments between the individual people and their families. It's the late-night phone calls. Because in the end, breast cancer is like any other disease. And we're still a long way from finding a cure.

Lara Gabrielle Blanco Heintz

In my kitchen —

My favorite part of the day comes right after rubbing my eyes awake and before slipping on a sweater and gathering my things to start the day.

And it's 8:30 a.m. and the sun has just begun to peek past the parking lot and into the kitchen window, warming my hands and the expanse across my feet and and all the way up my legs, as they tingle with aliveness — a window of alertness that seems to escape me for the rest of the day.

I like drinking my coffee alone in the morning in my kitchen because I like the act of being alone — I like the solitary act of waiting for the day to begin.

The pot bubbles up and down creating a wash of impatient sound across the tile floors as my egg bounces up and down inside it.

I pour the water out into the sink, submerging my egg in cold water before taking it carefully and peeling it right over the counter, balanced cautiously on one foot, sprinkling a few flakes over the smooth white surface.

I eat breakfast alone, and always standing, and usually in my underwear, like a victorious warrior on the brink of the day.