The crowd in your head has no right to judge your worth

Try separating the strands, the way you would untangle a knot. 'Log kya kahenge' is not one feeling; at least three different people are speaking through it.

The first is the frightened one. For most of human history, being cast out of the group meant real danger, even death. That old wiring still hums in us: a part of the mind treats disapproval as a threat to survival, so it pushes us to perform, to fit in, to never stand out wrongly. This is not weakness; it is very old software running in a world it was not written for.

The second is the empty one. When we are not sure of our own worth, we borrow it from the outside — a like, a compliment, an envious glance becomes a small loan against a doubt we carry inside. The trouble is the loan must be repaid daily; approval that fills you on Monday leaves you hungry again by Tuesday.

And the third, the most slippery, is the proud one in reverse — the part that says 'I am above all this, I never show off.' Listen to how pleased it sounds while saying it. The wish to be seen as humble is just the audience entering through the back door. Once you can spot which of the three is talking, the word loses some of its grip.

The first wrong idea is that showing off is a sin to be ashamed of. Shame only drives it deeper underground, where it grows in the dark. The Gita does name hollow display — dambha, putting on a show of being good or holy — and it places it first among the marks of a small, frightened way of living. But the texts treat it as something to understand and outgrow, not a stain to hate yourself for. You loosen this by seeing it, not by beating it.

The second is the belief that the cure is to stop caring about anyone at all. That is not freedom; it is just numbness, and usually a fresh kind of performance — the performance of not caring. Caring about people is human and good. The trap is only when their imagined verdict, not your own sense of right, becomes the steering wheel.

The third, and the deepest, is thinking that more success will finally quiet the audience. It almost never does. The same Gita warns about doing even your good and disciplined acts 'for honour, respect and worship' — tapas done for show. Reach the next rung and the audience simply grows larger and harder to please. The hunger does not end when you feed it more; it ends, a little, when you stop believing it is telling you the truth about your worth.

If the goal is not to crush the wish to be liked but to stop being run by it, the practical work is small and oddly playful. It begins with a pause. The urge to perform usually fires fast, before thought — the photo posed, the opinion bent, the purchase justified. The whole skill is to slip a single breath between the urge and the act, and in that breath ask one plain question: am I doing this because it is right or true for me, or because of how it will look?

You will not always like the answer, and you do not have to act on it every time. Just seeing it honestly already drains some of its charge. A craving you can watch is no longer fully in charge.

Then come the tiny experiments, because this loosens through practice, not lectures. Do one good thing this week that no one will ever know about — the audience gets no feeding, and you learn your worth does not need it. Share something a little imperfect on purpose. Let one mild disapproval pass without rushing to explain yourself, and notice that you survived it intact. Each small test teaches the nervous system the thing arguments cannot: that being unseen, or even slightly judged, is not the danger the old wiring screams it is.

So why does this old itch matter for an ordinary week? Because it spends your life for you, in small change, without asking. The job taken to impress relatives, the wedding stretched past the savings, the opinion swallowed so the table stays pleased — each is a tiny payment to an audience that will, in the end, move on and forget. The bill, though, stays with you.

The quiet turn the texts offer is not to crush the wish for love and belonging — that wish is real and human. It is to move the judge. Right now the judge sits outside, in a crowd whose attention is borrowed and brief. The older idea is to let the seat be taken by something steadier inside: your own honest sense of what is right, and a worth that was never theirs to grant or take back. The crowd does not vanish. It just stops holding the gavel.

No one does this cleanly or all at once, and you don't have to. Maybe the smallest first step is to catch the question as it rises — 'what will they think' — and quietly ask a sharper one in its place: and what do I think is right here? Sit with the gap between those two questions, just once, without rushing to fill it. That gap is where a borrowed life slowly starts becoming your own.