Modern connection: Xin Ying (centre) guiding her grandparents in navigating social media.
IT all started when my grandparents asked me to teach them how to upload a picture to social media.
We sat at the kitchen table. “How do I get to the camera again?” my grandma asked, holding her phone upside down. My grandpa, sitting next to her, squinted at his screen like it was written in a foreign language.
I sighed inwardly, already feeling impatient. “Okay, first, unlock your phones,” I said, trying to hide my frustration. They fumbled with their passcodes, and I had to resist the urge to just grab their phones and do it for them.
I slowly walked them through all the steps: opening the app, selecting the pictures, and writing a caption. Honestly, every step felt like a marathon.
“What’s a status update?” “Why does it say ‘Tag Friends’?” “How can I see if it’s posted?”
After what felt like an eternity, they finally posted their first photo – a picture of us having lunch together. My grandma’s face lit up like she’d just won the lottery.
“Look! Your cousin liked it already!” she exclaimed.
“Now, everyone can see what we’re up to,” my grandpa said proudly.
At that moment, my annoyance started to fade. Watching my grandparents light up as likes and comments rolled in, I understood something I hadn’t before: technology isn’t just about scrolling and sharing – for them, it is a way to stay connected.
Through it, they can share moments with family members who live far away, see updates from friends they haven’t seen in years, and feel connected to a part of a world that often moves too fast for them to keep up.
That picture of our lunch wasn’t just a post – it was a way for them to say, “We’re here, we’re part of this, and we want to share it with you.”
It made me realise how much I rely on technology to stay connected too, but in a much more superficial way. For them, it was about genuine connection.
As the days went on, my grandparents started posting more: pictures of grandpa’s beautiful garden, grandma’s tai chi group grinning in sweaty selfies, even my half-asleep face at breakfast (uploaded before I could protest).
Their “How do I add music to this?” calls became less like interruptions and more like invitations – tiny windows where generations overlapped.
But the biggest lesson came from watching them embrace something so new and unfamiliar. I always hear the stereotype that older people can’t learn new things, but my grandparents prove that wrong.
They aren’t just willing to learn – they are excited about it. And that is really inspiring. It made me think about how often I resist change because it feels uncomfortable or inconvenient.
If my grandparents could dive into social media in their 80s, what’s stopping me from trying something new? They show me that curiosity and growth don’t have an age limit, and that’s a lesson I’ll carry with me for a lifetime.
Now, when my phone buzzes with grandma’s “Please write a catchy caption for my post” or grandpa’s “How do I transfer money via TNG!”, I answer with patience I didn’t know I had.
The irony isn’t lost on me. I was supposed to be the teacher, but they schooled me instead. Every time they ask, ‘What does this button do?’ or laugh at a misplaced filter, they aren’t just learning technology; they are pulling me closer, one imperfect digital moment at a time.
Xin Ying, 16, a student in Melaka, is a participant of the BRATs Young Journalist Programme run by The Star’s Newspaper-in-Education (Star-NiE) team. For updates on the BRATs programme, go to facebook.com/niebrats.
