Someday You'll Be Internet Dead

I swear I'm not trying to turn this week's newsletters into a meditation on death. It just seems to be what's circling my desk lately, so I'm going to lean into it. 😊

I was just digging through photos online, looking for handsome faces to brighten up this newsletter. While I was scrolling, I came across a familiar face.

There was an acquaintance of mine who passed away less than two years ago.

Not long ago, if you typed his name into Google followed by the word "naked," you could spend an afternoon browsing page after page of photos. He wasn't shy. He loved being photographed, loved showing off, and would've been thrilled knowing people were still admiring him.

Out of curiosity, I searched for him again. "His name naked".

Two clothed pictures. Two nude pictures.

That was it.

It struck me that for the last thirty years we've all been warned, "Don't put anything online you'll regret. The internet is forever."

Is it? Maybe not.

The internet doesn't really remember. It simply gets distracted.

Every hour, millions upon millions of new photos, videos, articles, memes, and hot takes are dumped onto the pile. Yesterday's scandal becomes last week's news. Last year's viral sensation disappears beneath another mountain of content. It's almost as though digital information has its own version of decomposition. The bits and bytes don't exactly die—they simply get buried under newer bits and newer bytes.

That thought sent me down another rabbit hole.

Many years ago, one of my father's cousins' wife made the news after embezzling $127,000 from her employer and heading off to Las Vegas on a spending spree. Back then, the story seemed to be everywhere.

I searched her name.

One article.

Just one.

It reminded me a little of bankruptcy. At first, it feels like your whole world is collapsing and everyone will remember forever. Then time passes. Life keeps moving. People stop paying attention. Eventually, you're just another person living another ordinary Tuesday.

While I was searching family names, something even stranger happened.

A photo of my mother appeared.

That led to my father. Then my brother. My sister. Then me.

I clicked on my own profile expecting... I don't know... something profound?

Nothing.

A mostly blank page inviting me to fill in birthdays, anniversaries, spouses, milestones, and all sorts of personal details if I'd simply log in and hand over more information.

For about three seconds, I actually considered it.

Then I stopped and asked myself...

Why?

Why do I feel the need to make sure some giant database knows the date I graduated high school? Or where I lived in 1997? Or what flavor birthday cake I probably preferred?

It suddenly seemed oddly unimportant.

Nature has an incredible way of reclaiming things.

If humanity disappeared tomorrow, vines would crawl over skyscrapers. Trees would split sidewalks. Animals would reclaim neighborhoods. Before long, you'd barely know we had ever been here.

Maybe the internet does something similar.

Instead of vines and moss, it uses newer content.

New websites.

New photos.

New videos.

New stories.

Eventually our digital footprints fade beneath the endless stream of people who come after us.

And maybe that's not sad.

Maybe that's exactly how it's supposed to work.

Our memories were never meant to live forever inside search engines.

They're supposed to live inside people.

That's one of the reasons I love Día de los Muertos in Mexico. It's not about mourning the dead. It's about refusing to forget them. We cook their favorite meals, tell their stories, laugh at their bad jokes, display their photographs, and invite them back into our lives for just a little while. Their memory survives not because an algorithm preserved it, but because someone still carries them in their heart.

So here's today's comforting thought:

If you're worried about that embarrassing picture from 2008...

If you're worried someone might someday discover that photo of you naked...

If you're worried about that questionable haircut, that cringe-worthy blog post, or that spectacularly bad fashion choice...

Relax.

Someday you'll be internet dead.

The internet will move on.

The world will keep spinning.

And if you're lucky, the people who mattered won't remember you because of what Google found.

They'll remember the way you laughed, the way you loved, the adventures you took, and maybe—just maybe—that one time you had enough confidence to let the whole world see you exactly as you were.

Besides...

If someone is still searching for naked pictures of you fifty years from now, I'd call that a pretty good run.