Deleted a tweet this morning. Seven years old.
Someone had replied to it. I don’t know who. Don’t remember writing it. Just saw my own words, embarrassing, and clicked delete.
The tea went cold while I stared at the screen. The steam had stopped rising.
Outside, rain hit the window. Hard.
The thought arrived quietly, like a guest who lets themselves in without knocking: Is it possible?
I opened a new tab. Typed it slowly.
How to disappear from the internet completely?
Enter.
Millions of results. None of them looked like an exit.
My daughter is six.
“Dad, will people see all my photos when I’m grown up?”
“What photos?”
“The ones you post.”
We were in the kitchen. Her hair still wet from the bath, smelling of cheap strawberry shampoo. She picked up her juice box. Didn’t drink it. Just held the cardboard rectangle, looking at the straw.
“Do you want me to stop?” I asked.
She shrugged. “I just wonder what grown-up me will think about kid me.”
I looked at her small hands. Suddenly, the phrase I’d read in an article—sharenting risks—felt heavy in the room. It sounded like a medical condition. A diagnosis for parents who steal their children’s privacy.
I said nothing.
Outside, someone’s car alarm went off, then stopped. The silence came back, filled with unasked questions about **online privacy**. The kitchen light hummed.
Father’s Facebook is still there.
Last post: “Beautiful day for a walk.” Photo of the park near his house. The sky was too blue in the picture. Two years ago.
Still gets birthday messages. “Miss you.” “Thinking of you today.”
People writing to a dead man.
I scrolled through it once. Fifteen years of posts. Arguments about politics with people he never met. Photos from vacations where he looked tired. Status updates about books he didn’t finish. An observation about the weather.
This is his digital legacy. Not the man. Just the data.
The man is gone. The server remains.
“Do you ever think about what happens to all of it?” she asked.
We were eating dinner. Roast chicken. The smell filled the room, greasy and warm.
“All of what?”
“The photos. The posts. Everything we put online.”
“It stays there.”
“Forever?”
I hadn’t thought about it. “Probably. Why?”
She was quiet for a long time. Used her fork to push a single green pea around her white plate.
“We’re going to die someday,” she said. “And all of it will still be there. There’s no way to do a data cleanup when you’re dead.”
The rain started again. We could hear it drumming on the roof. A rhythm without a song.
Scrolled through my own posts last week. Eighteen years of them.
Some made me proud. Some made me cringe. Arguments I shouldn’t have started. Things I said without thinking.
This is all me. Every version. All preserved in amber. The terrifying reality of internet permanence.
My daughter will see this someday. People I don’t know will see it.
I kept scrolling. Couldn’t stop.
The thumb moved on its own. A separate animal.
I thought about the search again. How to disappear from the internet completely.
Is it even possible? Or is it like trying to un-ring a bell?
“Do you want to be remembered this way?” she asked later.
The dishes were done. The house was settling for the night.
“What way?”
“Through posts. Photos. Random thoughts you shared.”
“What’s the alternative?”
“People used to be remembered through stories. Things they did. Filtered through the people who knew them. They had a right to be forgotten.”
“And now?”
“Now everything gets preserved. The stupid stuff with the meaningful stuff. Five minutes on a bad day gets saved forever.”
She was right. But I didn’t say that. Just turned off the kitchen light.
Father’s profile posted yesterday. Automatic birthday reminder.
“Happy birthday!” people wrote.
Messages to a digital ghost.
His digital footprint is deeper than his grave. He is still walking around inside the server farms in Nevada or Ireland. Cooling fans spinning to keep his memory alive.
My daughter’s entire childhood is documented. Every haircut. Every scraped knee. Every funny thing she said that I typed out.
She exists in files more completely than in my memory. Those moments have faded for me. But the videos are still sharp.
One day she’ll watch them. This comprehensive documentation of a life she doesn’t remember living.
Will it feel like her life?
I don’t know.
The Egyptians built pyramids. Carefully. With purpose. They knew what they wanted to leave behind.
We’re building accidentally. Every post, every photo. Not thinking about what we want preserved. Just clicking. Sharing. Assuming it’ll disappear.
It won’t.
Social media anxiety isn’t about connecting anymore. It’s about what remains. It’s the fear of the permanent record.
My mother’s voicemail is still saved on my phone. Three years old.
Her voice saying, “Call me back when you can.”
I’ve listened to it maybe five times. Can’t make myself delete it. Can’t make myself keep listening to it.
It’s there. That’s all.
“If we’re together, does loneliness go away?” my daughter asked once.
I didn’t know what to say.
“Even though we’re small, we’re still here,” she said.
I looked at her. Six years old. Already thinking about these things.
Late at night, I think about it.
My tweets will exist after my voice is gone.
My photos will outlast my face.
My posts will survive my memory of writing them.
This is what we get. Not great deeds. Just accumulated debris. Comprehensive, unedited, totally preserved records of ordinary existence.
Maybe future generations will understand us because of it. All this preserved triviality. Showing them exactly what it was like to be alive in the age of screens.
Or maybe they’ll just be overwhelmed.
I don’t know.
2:43 AM. Can’t sleep. Looking for some kind of mental peace.
Checked my phone. Scrolled through old posts. Seven years ago. Ten years ago.
Who was that person?
The screen light hurt my eyes. It was the only light in the room. Cold and blue.
I know I need a digital detox, but the pull is too strong. Put the phone down. Picked it up again.
She was sleeping. The house was quiet except for rain.
I kept scrolling.
Thinking about the only question that matters now: how to disappear from the internet completely.
Maybe.