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The algorithm of desire

The Algorithm of Desire

By Nidhi Guglani


It starts innocently. I see something—maybe a dress in a reel, a pair of earrings, or just a fabric in an ad that floats across my screen. I like it. I click. Sometimes I buy it. Sometimes I just browse.


But the internet is always watching.


The next day, I’m shown more of the same. More reels of beautiful people in beautiful places wearing beautiful things. More ads. More choices. Each scroll brings me something I didn’t even know I wanted until I saw it. The algorithm isn’t just giving me suggestions—it’s shaping my desires.


The moment I try to resist, I’m pulled in deeper.

Because here’s the hard part: it’s not that I want to show off. I do enjoy appreciation—who doesn’t? But this desire to wear something new, to look different each day, isn’t rooted in vanity. It’s something else. Something deeper.


I don’t like repetition. Not in what I wear, not in my habits, not even in my daily routine. Doing the same thing every day dulls me. It’s as if my spirit starts to go stale. I crave change—not grand upheavals, but small shifts, subtle variations that make life feel fresh and alive.


To bring that sense of newness into my life, I often turn to clothes, objects, spaces. A new kurta, a fresh accessory, a different setup on my table. It feels good. Until I realize: each time I chase that feeling, I’m spending—money, energy, attention. And in that process, I’m also hoarding.


There’s a point where novelty, unchecked, begins to weigh you down.


And here’s the hardest truth I’ve had to admit to myself:

Every time I buy something I don’t really need, I’m taking a step further away from someone who does need it. Maybe not the object itself—but the money, the opportunity, the intention.


What if, instead of seeking the thrill of something new, I found freshness in giving?


What if abundance wasn’t about never repeating, but about choosing joy in sharing?


I haven’t mastered it. But I’m beginning to see that every object I give away creates space—not just in my wardrobe, but in my mind. Every time I resist the urge to buy something new just to feel different, I reclaim a part of myself that’s already whole.


This isn’t about guilt. It’s about awareness.

It’s not about minimalism. It’s about meaning.


And it’s not about never changing—it’s about choosing what kind of change makes life feel fuller.


I don’t have it figured out yet. But I know that when I give—when I truly give, whether it’s clothes, time, or even just attention—I feel a joy that no new item has ever given me.


That is real abundance.

And that’s what I want to keep chasing now.


And when I think about what truly anchors me, it’s not the things I own—it’s the roles I inhabit.


As a teacher, I see how much more meaningful a conversation can be than a possession. My students don’t remember what I wore, but they do remember when I saw them, when I listened to their anxieties, when I affirmed their voice. Their questions and sharp observations, like “We’re so consumed in consuming,” hold a mirror to me—and often, they teach me more than I teach them.


As a writer, I know that a story can outlast a trend. Writing demands inner attention, not outer appearances. It reminds me that meaning doesn’t come from how things look, but from how they connect.


And as a mother, I’m constantly aware that what my sons inherit from me is not just material—but emotional and ethical. They watch how I spend, how I give, how I resist or give in. If I want them to value people over possessions, I need to model that, not preach it.


These parts of my life draw me back to what matters: relationships, creativity, care, thoughtfulness.


And perhaps that is my new definition of novelty—not in things, but in how I keep growing through them, above them, and beyond them.


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