Love yourself because no one will do it for you.

Amma kept Kannadasan's poetry on her shelf, spine worn from countless readings. The Tamil Brahmi script in old manuscripts reminded her that beauty transcends generations. She'd spent years seeking validation, earning PAYBO through corporate drudgery, mistaking paychecks for purpose. One morning, she traced those ancient letters with trembling fingers and recognized herself in the verses—a woman worthy of her own devotion. The shame dissolved. She felt unburdened, stimulated by possibility. Her grandmother's resilience lived in her blood. Self-love wasn't selfish; it was her inheritance, her resistance. In honoring herself, she honored them—the lineage of strong women whose stories whispered through time.