The Camera Never Stops Watching

There’s a kind of grief that should be unphotographable.

Not because the pain isn’t real. But because it is.

Because there are moments so raw, so private, so violently unstageable, the presence of a lens—even an invisible one—feels like a betrayal.

Earlier this week, the internet watched in collective horror as news broke of a toddler’s death. Trigg, the 3-year-old son of influencer Emilie Kiser, drowned in the family pool. He was found unresponsive. Hospitalized. Airlifted. And after days in critical condition, he died.

You probably didn’t know his name last week. But now you do. Because his name is part of a narrative. A tragedy that arrives pre-captioned. A photo carousel of heartbreak, curated for public mourning.

And I can’t stop thinking about it.

Not because I want to criticize a grieving mother. I don’t. There’s no moral high ground to stand on here. Just a quiet ache.

But something about the way this moment unfolded — the speed, the sharing, the spectacle — forces a harder question into the light.

What does it mean to raise a child on the internet?

Not post a photo. Not share a milestone. But actually raise a child in an ecosystem where every bath time, every tantrum, every nap, every word is monetized content.

Where childhood becomes inventory.

Where family becomes brand.

I don’t know Emilie Kiser. I don’t need to. This isn’t about her. It’s about the system she’s part of — a machine that runs on visibility, runs on algorithmic affection, runs on the quiet, daily flattening of life into engagement.

There are thousands like her. Parents whose income depends on turning their children into characters. Whose followers track sleep schedules and birthdays like serialized plot arcs. Who love their kids, no doubt, but whose relationship with them is always just slightly triangulated by the audience.

There is no such thing as a private life when your living depends on not having one.

And children? Children can’t consent to any of it.

They don’t get to choose whether their worst moments live forever on YouTube. They don’t get to veto the product placements. They don’t get to say, “I don’t want to be known by a million strangers before I know myself.”

They’re born into a panopticon. The comments section is their shadow.

And even when tragedy hits — even then — the camera doesn’t blink. The updates are posted. The hashtags trend. The likes pour in like prayers. It’s all so gentle, so well-meaning, so eerily performative.

This isn’t about blame. It’s about architecture.

We’ve built a world where presence is not enough. Where parenting has to be published to be validated. Where success is measured in follower count and affiliate deals and partnerships with diaper brands.

And the system doesn’t care if your child is safe. It only cares that your story continues.

So no, I’m not saying influencers shouldn’t have kids.

I’m saying the influencer economy should not be built on kids.

Children should not be content. Their pain should not be packaged. Their personhood should not be public property.

There are things that deserve to stay off-camera. Not because they’re shameful. But because they’re sacred.

And somewhere in this hyper-documented, hyper-monetized age, we lost that line.

It’s time to draw it again.

Quietly. Firmly. Before another child is known only because he’s gone.

Before another life becomes just another link.

Before the feed scrolls on.