What Lingers

A few weeks ago, a friend interviewed me about what happens to our online data after we pass away. In that article, I shared that I sometimes visit a late friend’s Facebook account whenever I miss her. Her final days are still there: messages from her at the hospital bed, her moments of hope, and her quiet sorrow that her husband had to put his life on hold to stay by her side through it all.

She was my husband's friend, and we weren’t that close. But we met a few times, and I could tell she was warm and easygoing. I found myself liking her more each time we crossed paths.

It’s not just her page I visit. Sometimes I find myself scrolling through other accounts too, including one belonging to a friend I used to write with. I see snapshots of his home renovations, memories from when he had just bought the house. He was so proud of it. I’d been there a few times. In fact, years ago I helped get that house featured in a magazine by introducing him to a reporter.

I still remember what he said to me the day he showed it off: “This house may be far from the city center, but let’s see ... maybe your next house will be even further out.”

He said many hurtful things to me: about my appearance, about my family. I won’t go into detail because in Islam, we are encouraged to remember the good of those who have passed, not to speak ill of them after they’re gone.

Still, some of his words stay with me. They echo from time to time, leaving behind something I can’t quite name. Not rage, but something quieter. Something heavier. Resentment, maybe. It lingers in the background, like a song I can’t turn off.

But I don’t want that resentment to disturb whatever peace he may have found. And I don’t want it to keep weighing me down either.

So I’m learning to let go. Not because he asked for forgiveness, or even deserved it, but because I need to be free.

And maybe that brings me back to the first question — about our online presence, and what remains of us when we're gone. I don’t want people to hold a grudge against me either, or feel anger when they scroll past a photo of me after I’m no longer here. So if I’ve ever hurt you (knowingly or not), I hope you’ll forgive me.

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Photo by Annie Spratt on Unsplash

Going Stealth

I started blogging back in 2008. At the time, my blog was like an open book. I shared everything. My friends’ names, my own photos, little daily stories… nothing felt too private. Before that, I wrote in a diary, so blogging felt like the natural next step. It was even more fun because people could read it. Sometimes they’d laugh, sometimes they’d say, “I feel the same way.” It felt like connection.

But a few years ago,  I came across a news article that made me pause. It talked about how easily our personal data can be misused. How people with bad intentions could track us down just from what we post online. That really got to me.

Since then, I’ve started archiving anything that felt too personal. My child’s name, her photos, the hospital where she was born, my husband’s name—all of it. I even set my YouTube videos to private and locked all my social media accounts (even LinkedIn where I could get a job opportunity). Now, I only accept friend requests from people I know in real life.

If you search my name online today, you won’t find much. Maybe a few photos, mostly from book launches or interviews—things I can’t really take back.

A few weeks ago, a friend asked me, “What if you died? Wouldn’t you want people to still find you online when they miss you?”

I’ve thought about that a lot. Social media could be like an “online cemetery”—a place where friends can visit, remember me, or look back on the life I once lived. Maybe close friends would still have access to my social media. But those who are far away? Maybe not. And that’s okay. 

If people want to remember me, they can read my words here—through this blog or my other blog. And that’s enough.

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Photo by Ian Keefe on Unsplash