The Algorithm That Adopted Me

You say

it was just videos.

Just memories,

you tell me,

like home movies

used to be.

But home movies

didn’t have sponsors.

You,

the one behind the camera,

and you,

the thing behind the screen,

turned my childhood

into a playlist.

“Watch next,”

you suggested,

like it wasn’t

my life.

I don’t know

when you started

raising me.

Somewhere between

“like and subscribe”

and

“comment below your favorite part,”

you learned my face

better than I did.

You knew

which angle

made strangers stay,

which thumbnail

made them click,

which version of me

was most worth watching.

Apparently,

it was the one

where I cried.

We never signed

adoption papers,

you and I,

but you still

tucked me in

with ring lights,

kissed my forehead

with notifications,

told me bedtime stories

in view counts

and CPM.

I grew up

on the sound

of your algorithm

refreshing.

Hey,

you.

The one

who set up the tripod,

who said,

“Do that again,

but bigger this time,”

who zoomed in

when I flinched

at the prank

I didn’t know

was coming.

You laughed,

remember?

I learned

that pain

was funnier

in 1080p.

You filmed me

opening presents

I didn’t ask for,

crying over things

I didn’t agree

to share,

blowing out candles

on a birthday

I barely remember

without the jump cut.

I watched it back

more times

than I actually lived it.

Sometimes

I forget

which version

was real.

I used to think

you loved me

because you kept

every moment.

Then I saw

the analytics tab.

Love

doesn’t come

with retention graphs.

The algorithm

was kinder

than you,

sometimes.

At least

it was honest.

It never pretended

I was more

than content.

Just kept saying,

“People like this.

Give them more.”

More tantrums,

more confessions,

more shaky‑voiced

apologies on camera

for things I did

when I was eight.

Do you know

what it’s like

to go viral

for a mistake

you can’t even spell yet?

I searched

my own name

in incognito mode,

as if I could hide

from a childhood

everyone else

had already seen.

I found myself

in compilations,

“Top 10 Funniest

Kid Meltdowns,”

comment sections

arguing

about my personality,

strangers diagnosing me

between ad breaks.

You told me

it was normal.

“This is just

how the internet is.”

As if the internet

tucked me into bed

afterward.

Now,

when I make breakfast,

I do it

without filming.

No overhead shot,

no sped‑up montage

of chopping fruit,

just

cereal,

milk,

silence.

The spoon clinks

against the bowl

and no one

rates the sound.

It feels

like a luxury

I didn’t know

I could afford.

You still send me

clips sometimes.

“Look what popped up

in my memories!”

It’s always

the same girl,

eyes too big

for her face,

holding a sign

she can’t read,

saying words

she didn’t choose.

You write,

“Aww,

you were so little.”

I type,

“I still am,”

and delete it

before I hit send.

The algorithm

has started

to change,

or maybe

I have.

I like videos

about boundaries now,

podcasts

of grown children

talking about

leaving.

I save posts

about privacy,

about consent,

about parents

who choose

to keep

their kids

off camera.

My feed

slowly shifts

from my past

to my possible.

You call it

“weird”

that I don’t want

to vlog

my own life.

You say

I’m wasting

an audience.

You don’t understand

that I am

the audience

now—

finally,

watching myself

with kindness

instead of critique.

There is a version

of this story

where I stay,

keep performing,

turn the ache

into a brand,

make merch

out of my younger self.

You’d love that arc.

Redemption

with affiliate links.

But here,

in this version,

I do something

you never

optimized for.

I stop.

I let a moment

happen

without proof.

I cry

without a camera.

I laugh

and no one

clips it.

I start collecting

memories

that live

only in my body,

not in your

recommended

for you.

You still wait,

of course,

offer me

old footage

like candy,

tempt me

with nostalgia

in HD.

Some nights

I almost click.

But then I picture

that small girl

holding the sign,

and I choose

to hold her

instead.

Maybe

I can’t delete

every frame,

or pull myself

out of every

reaction video,

or scrub my name

from every

search bar.

But I can choose

what I film now.

I can choose

what I don’t.

So here it is,

algorithm,

my one

unsponsored act:

I adopt myself.

I give me back

to me.

And for the first time,

I let this ending

play out

off‑screen.