At first, it was just about the sweaters.

I’d gotten them custom-made on Etsy—navy blue, hand-stitched with their names: THEO and GUS. I pictured the fall leaves, the giant wooden chair at the pumpkin patch, that perfect “Pinterest parent” moment I could finally post without filters.

And it was perfect.

Theo laughed nonstop, and even little Gus, who usually fusses through everything, sat surprisingly still. One snap after another—Theo’s boots dusty from the corn maze, Gus’s striped pants crooked, their names bold across their chests. Everyone walking by smiled. One couple even asked if they could take a photo of my kids, like they were part of the scenery.

I was glowing.

But that night, after putting them to bed, I uploaded the pics and got ready to post. And right before I hit share, I hesitated.

It wasn’t the lighting.
Or their outfits.
Or anything that showed up in the frame.

It was… how much of them I was putting out there.

Full names. Clear faces. Recognizable location. Just sitting out there, ready for anyone to grab, repost, or use for something I’d never even imagine. Something I couldn’t take back.

And suddenly, what started as a harmless fall tradition—just some cute memories—felt like something I needed to protect.

So I saved the photos to a private folder. Sent them to family. Closed the app.

And whispered, “Not everything has to be public.”

At first, I felt relieved. I thought I’d made the right call, and I was content knowing I could still share those precious moments with my loved ones, just in a more private, controlled way. After all, what harm could there be in keeping my children’s pictures among close friends and family? But as days passed, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I had made a bigger decision than I realized.

It wasn’t just the photo session anymore. It was the whole idea of sharing their lives—of sharing everything. The more I thought about it, the more I began to see how much of their world was already being documented, even before they were old enough to understand what was happening. Every milestone, every moment, captured in an Instagram post or Facebook album, forever out there for anyone to see, comment on, or even judge.

I started paying closer attention to the parents around me. At the park, at birthday parties, at the grocery store—everyone was pulling out their phones, snapping pictures of their children, and uploading them. It was the new norm.

But every time I saw someone else post their kids, a small knot of discomfort grew inside me. Were they thinking about it the same way? Were they wondering, like I was, whether there would come a time when those innocent, adorable photos might turn into something bigger than they’d ever imagined?

That night, I sat on the couch after the boys had fallen asleep, scrolling through my feed. I came across a post from an old friend—a picture of her daughter at a playdate, holding hands with a boy from the neighborhood. The caption was sweet, but something about it made my stomach churn. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it, but I felt like I was looking at a moment that wasn’t just hers anymore. It was everyone’s. And once it’s out there, there’s no taking it back.

The thought lingered in my mind as the days went on. I couldn’t ignore it. I began reading articles about the dangers of oversharing kids online, about how kids—especially teens—could be impacted by the digital footprints created before they even had a say in it. Some kids grew up with their every move documented online, and it wasn’t just harmless snapshots anymore. They were part of an endless cycle of content—shared, liked, and commented on by people they didn’t even know.

Then, one day, I was scrolling through my feed, and I saw something that stopped me in my tracks. A friend from high school had posted a photo of her daughter’s birthday party. It was a picture of her daughter blowing out the candles, surrounded by friends. I had been to the party—had even taken a few of the pictures myself—but there was something I hadn’t noticed in the photo until now.

The birthday girl’s face was lit up with joy, her eyes sparkling as she leaned toward the cake, but in the background, another child was clearly visible. She was staring at the camera, her face frozen in what looked like an uncomfortable smile. Something about it didn’t sit right with me. I had no idea who this child was. But there she was, immortalized in a photo on a public social media account, a photo that would live on forever. She wasn’t even my child, and yet, I felt uneasy about her being in the picture without her parents’ consent.

I felt a growing realization. These pictures we were taking—these “memories”—were not just about us. They were about other people too. Other kids. And we, as parents, had the responsibility to protect not only our children but also the other children who happened to cross our paths in those fleeting moments.

I felt guilty. It had never occurred to me that by sharing photos of Theo and Gus, I could be violating someone else’s privacy, even if it was unintentional. It was a small thing, sure, but I realized the little moments added up. What if the parents of that little girl didn’t want their child’s photo out there? What if there were other photos I had posted with other kids in the background, and their parents weren’t okay with it?

And so, I decided to make a change. I started taking more control over what I shared. It wasn’t just about keeping my own kids’ faces safe—it was about respecting everyone’s privacy. I started asking friends before posting any pictures of their kids. If I saw someone else’s child in the background of a photo, I’d ask if they were okay with it before sharing it anywhere. If they weren’t, I deleted it. Simple as that.

But there was something else I didn’t expect: the ripple effect.

One afternoon, I met a friend for coffee. As we sat at a café, she showed me a picture of her daughter’s school recital. Her phone buzzed, and it was a comment from a family member on the post she had just shared.

“Why did you share this picture of Sophie without her consent? She didn’t want her face online.”

The comment wasn’t mean, but it was clear that her family member had a boundary that my friend hadn’t realized. She paused for a moment, then laughed nervously.

“I thought it was cute. But now that I think about it, I guess I never asked her. I’ll ask her when I get home.”

It was a small moment, but it struck me. I had started a conversation without even meaning to, simply by making one small decision to be more mindful of what I posted.

The more I shared my thoughts on the topic with friends, the more I realized that this was something we all felt conflicted about. Most parents didn’t even realize the weight of the decision they were making by posting pictures of their children. It was a generational shift—a move from privacy to exposure in the digital age. But it was also a shift in thinking.

And then came the twist.

A few weeks later, I received an email from a company that had somehow gotten hold of a photo of Theo and Gus from one of the family outings I had posted privately to family members. The photo was being used in an advertisement for a children’s toy brand. The ad was well-meaning—showing happy children playing with the toys, looking joyful and content—but it shocked me.

The moment I saw that ad, I realized how quickly things could get out of hand. This photo, something I had shared with only a few close family members, had been picked up, used, and turned into something entirely out of my control. I didn’t give permission. I didn’t know how it had happened. But there it was, my children’s faces being used to promote a product.

It was a wake-up call.

I contacted the company, and they immediately apologized, pulling the ad down and compensating me for the use of the photo. But it didn’t change the fact that it had happened. That photo was now out there in the world, forever.

But there was a silver lining. It forced me to reflect deeply on the importance of privacy and the implications of sharing anything online. It made me more determined than ever to protect my family’s digital footprint. More than that, it sparked a broader conversation with other parents, friends, and even strangers on social media. We shared experiences, discussed boundaries, and ultimately helped each other understand the real power—and consequences—of the things we post.

In the end, I learned something that shifted my entire perspective: what we choose to share with the world doesn’t just belong to us. It belongs to everyone in those photos, and it can affect their lives in ways we never imagined. Privacy isn’t just a luxury; it’s a right.

So, to anyone reading this, remember to think twice before hitting “share.” It’s not just about you—it’s about respecting the privacy of others too. We all deserve to control our own stories, to choose what parts of ourselves we share, and when.

If you found this helpful, feel free to share it with someone who might need to hear it. It’s a conversation worth having.