edited me

Grandmother showed me an old photograph, her youth frozen in black and white. "I edited myself away," she whispered, pointing to scratches obscuring her face. She'd memorized Kannadasan's verses about identity, how we reshape ourselves for approval. Years later, scrolling through filtered versions, I understood. Each post was a careful edit, a performance for invisible judges rating my worth in hearts and shares. But today, I found Swami Paramarthananda's teachings about authenticity. His words cracked something open. I posted the unedited version—messy hair, genuine smile, real tears. The responses surprised me: genuine connection over metrics. Our ancestors knew truth. We're learning it again, together.