Photoshopped Reality

Photoshopped Reality

People say reality is what you make it, but I’m convinced reality is what you edit it into—preferably with good lighting and a filter called “Heaven’s Glow.” At least, that’s how my cousin Marlene sees the world. To her, nothing is real unless it has been cropped, retouched, recolored, sharpened, and given at least three sparkles.

My awakening to this Photoshopped Reality happened on a Saturday morning, when Marlene invited me to help her take “natural lifestyle pictures” for her social media page. You’d think “natural” meant effortless. Wrong. It meant waking up two hours earlier so she could curl her hair into “messy waves” that somehow took extreme precision to perfect.

We went to a little park nearby—a place full of ducks, joggers, and three-year-olds sticky with ice cream. A normal park. But when Marlene looked at it, her eyes sparkled as if she had discovered a lost kingdom.

“Oh my gosh, this light is EVERYTHING. Okay, Ian, stand right there.”

I blinked. “Why am I in the picture?”

“You’re not. But I need you to block the sun while I adjust my camera. Just stand still and be tall.”

I was neither tall nor still, but I tried. Meanwhile, Marlene posed beside a tree, tilting her face in 47 directions until she found the angle that apparently made her resemble a celestial being.

“Take the picture!” she shouted.

I pressed the button. She zoomed in immediately, squinting at the pixels like a jeweler inspecting diamonds.

“Hmm. My face looks a little… face-like,” she murmured.

“As opposed to what?”

“Flawless. Not to worry. Photoshop will fix it.”

And it did, because that evening, she posted a photo where her pores had apparently retired, her waist was suspiciously narrow, and even the tree beside her looked as though it had been moisturized.

The comments poured in.

“Gorgeous!”

“Natural beauty!”

“Living your best life!”

Natural? She had spent 12 minutes editing out a squirrel.

For a while, I found it amusing—watching people praise a reality that existed only in Marlene’s laptop. But things got stranger. Soon, she wasn’t just editing photos. She was editing moments.

One afternoon, while we were at a café, a barista accidentally spilled a bit of foam on her sleeve. It wasn’t a big deal. She laughed it off and wiped it clean. End of story. Or so I thought.

Later that night, she posted a photo of the café outing with the caption:

**“When the barista spills, but the universe aligns ✨☕🫶 #Blessed #BeKind”**

The picture showed her glowing, serene… and wearing a completely spotless sweater. The foam had been erased from history as if it had offended someone.

“Doesn’t it feel weird?” I asked her. “Changing things like that?”

“Not at all,” she said breezily. “Life should be curated.”

Curated. The word sat in my mind like a decorative pillow—pretty, pointless, and aggressively soft.

But the moment everything shifted was the weekend she begged me to go hiking with her so she could “capture authentic adventure energy.” The trail was steep, the sun was intense, and halfway up I seriously considered faking a dramatic fainting episode.

Marlene, however, looked glamorous. She had brought makeup. For a hike.

When we finally reached a, frankly, unimpressive hilltop, she asked me to take her photo. I lifted the camera. She adjusted her hair. The wind ignored her instructions.

“Try again,” she said. “Don’t get the sweat.”

“It’s on your face,” I said. “It exists.”

She sighed in frustration. “Everything is editable.”

Except that day—it wasn’t.

Just as she posed with one hand on her hip, a mosquito flew directly into her mouth.

The sound she made defied human language.

She spit, screamed, flailed, tripped over her tripod, and tumbled backward into a bush that had the personality of a disgruntled porcupine. Leaves flew. A twig lodged itself in her ponytail. The mosquito escaped with its dignity intact. She did not.

I helped her stand up, and for the first time, she didn’t immediately check her hair or camera.

Instead, she laughed. A real, raw, uncurated laugh that burst out of her like she hadn’t heard it in years.

“That was horrible,” she gasped.

“It was,” I agreed.

“It was… kind of amazing.”

“It was VERY real.”

And that was the day Marlene posted her first unedited picture. Sure, the mosquito wasn’t in the frame, but the twigs were, the dirt smudge on her cheek was, and even her crooked grin was gloriously intact.

The caption read:

**“Reality bit me today. Literally. 10/10 would live it again.”**

And people loved it. Not because it was perfect—but because it wasn’t.

In that moment, I saw the real world creeping back in. A little messier. A little louder. A little more human.

A little less Photoshopped.