Ghosts in the Feed - Slaying Digital Stalkers
They say "blood is thicker than water," but they don't tell you that blood can rot. After years of emotional violence, gaslighting that left me doubting my own mind, control that strangled my creativity, and the frenzied ballet of family secrets, I severed ties with my natal clan. My spouse did the same. Six years of radio silence. Yet every time I post a victory on my public Instagram Story, a behind-the-scenes glimpse of my latest writing feature, or the launch of a new workshop, I feel their presence, and sometimes, literally, see their little profile pictures hovering beneath my "likes". They are digital phantoms flicking through my posts. It's a stalking I never asked to star in, a voyeurism so intimate it feels mandated: We will watch you heal, and we will not let you forget where you came from, even if we poison that origin.
This is an obsession. It's the same kin who once shrugged off my decades of tears, marveling now at my confidence, and feeling like they have some claim to my success. But their perceived power lies in surveillance. Those little eyeball icons beneath my story become tally marks charging against my spine: They see me. They're waiting for me to slip. And perhaps I was naïve to believe cutting them off would grant silence—that absence would yield peace. But social media refuses absence. It even promotes digital stalking. Take Facebook, for example: have you ever seen people you absolutely do not fuck with under the "People You May Know" section? Yeah. That's what I mean.
Why "Proving" Digital Stalking Feels Impossible
In the legal world, stalking conjures images of shadowy figures lurking on sidewalks, midnight letters slipped under doors, or unwanted phone calls in the dead of night. But what happens when your stalkers hide in code? When kin check your story analytics but never text, never call, never breach the block list? Instagram offers only a list of viewers—no precise timestamps, no IP logs. In 2026, California's Penal Code remains centuries behind the emotional frontier of digital life.
Under California Penal Code § 646.9, stalking requires a "course of conduct" that "would cause a reasonable person to fear for their safety" (Cal. Pen. Code § 646.9, West 2025). But proving that Aunt_Vonnie viewed your story twenty times in two days? That doesn't exist in the statute. All you have are ghost-icons, vanishing videos, and a pounding heart affirming: They're watching.
Family drama muddies the water further. You can't subpoena your mother's Instagram logs without suing her. You can't file a criminal complaint over "I saw you viewed my Instagram Story." Judges want threats, phone calls, menacing letters. They want the tangible. They don't see the subtle theft of psychological safety.
The Abolitionist's Dilemma: Seeking Safety Without Carceral Chains
As I contemplate legal action, a tremor of hesitation runs through me. As an abolitionist, one who dreams of transformative justice circles and community accountability, I recoil at relying on a judicial system built atop prison walls. How can I, who envisions harm addressed through restoration rather than cages (Davis, 2019), reconcile invoking restraining orders and contempt powers? Still, every flash of their handles in my story analytics resurrects old anxieties: What if they cross from watching to wielding?
Carceral Shadows on Abolitionist Principles
Abolitionist frameworks teach that harm should be met with repair and collective care, not state violence (Davis, 2019). But restorative circles can feel insufficient against unseen stalkers whose "contact" is algorithmic and anonymous. Digital stalking is a slow erosion of psychological boundaries, especially brutal when your tormentors share your DNA.
Protections Short of Punishment
I've discovered shields beyond courtroom doors:
Mutual Aid Accountability Networks: A collective of trusted friends, fellow healers, and Black abolitionists who monitor each other's digital spaces. When a pattern emerges— say, specific profiles lurking on a story about healing, issue an alert. Gathered data fuels a solidarity ritual, not a subpoena: we convene online, share strength, and strategize outside punitive frameworks.
Peer-Facilitated Boundary Workshops: Modeled on restorative circles, consider hosting a circle- gatherings that center on crafting and affirming digital boundaries. Practice "boundary letters", brief, fierce missives to offenders naming the harm and requesting cessation. Shared within our network, these letters carry communal weight.
Encrypted Digital Safe Spaces: Platforms like Signal or Matrix host behind-the-scenes moments for my chosen circle. And remember: every post is for co-conspirators in liberation, not invisible watchers.
The Risk of "Hysteria" and the Power of Testimony
As a Black woman, my rage risks dismissal as "hysteria," a trope weaponized to invalidate our voices (Carter, 2018). Speak of being "watched," and you invite rolling eyes. To counteract the stigma, I reframe my experience as collective evidence of systemic kinship entitlement enforced through digital surveillance. When my story resonates, and other Black women share their own, we dismantle the "hysterical Black woman" stereotype with communal witness and shared data. As we all know, abuse thrives in secrecy. So let's blow the lid off. Okay, I see you seeing me. What's good?
Navigating Dual Loyalties: Heart and Principle
Part of me yearns to toss my unease into an official restraining order: an immediate, recognizable boundary. Yet another part clings to abolitionist praxis: transformation over expulsion, repair over repression. Thus, I stand at the crossroads, weaving legal tools and community-based strategies into a multifaceted safety net. In this tension lies abolitionist healing's more profound truth: we build layers of protection, some from law, some from love, some from creative solidarity, affirming that our worth and right to peace are non-negotiable.
Healing Rituals & Invoking Ancestral Protection
True liberation stretches beyond legal measures into ceremony, self-preservation, and ancestral guidance. The wound of kinship surveillance heals when I turn inward and upward to those who walked before me. Below are steps merging praxis with Afro-Indigenous cosmology to heal, shield, and honor our lineages.
Consecration of Sacred Space
Altar assembly: family photograph of those you love and trust (to recognize and release), a dark-blue candle (protection), salted water (emotional clarity), and myrrh (purification).
Intention: "I consecrate this space as a sanctuary of healing and boundary. I call my ancestors to guard my peace."
Ancestral Invocation & Drumming
Call your line: "I call on my ancestors who respect my boundaries and have only ever wanted to protect me." If known, name individuals.
Rhythmic bridge: drum, tap, or chant to align your heartbeat with theirs. Drumming signals your readiness to receive guidance (Morrison, 2017).
Liberatory Water Offering
Bowl of salted water: speak burdens into it: "I release fear of being watched. I reclaim serenity."
Overnight vigil: place on your altar; in the morning, wash hands or face with that water—a ritual baptism cleansing digital residue.
Protective Boundary Spell
Write your boundary on paper: "No one may surveil my story without consent. And if they do, they face ancestral wrath."
Activation: pass the slip through myrrh incense smoke, then tuck it under your doormat or bury it in a potted plant, rooting your limits into the earth (Okun, 2006).
Ancestral Vigil & Journal
Full or new moon practice: light the protection candle and journal a conversation: "What boundaries must I strengthen?"
Record insights in an "Ancestral Guidance" journal. Over time, this map charts your healing arc.
Communal Drum & Testimony Circle
Gather trusted healers— abolitionists, mentors, your chosen family. Begin with a shared drumbeat, then speak brief testimonies of digital surveillance. Close with collective affirmation: "Our boundaries are sacred. Our peace is non-negotiable."
Ongoing Gratitude & Release
Blessings: Name three daily blessings. Your thriving work, a healing comrade, an ancestral whisper.
Candle closure: Blow out the flame, envisioning all lingering surveillance dissolving into smoke.
By integrating these rituals, I fuse strategy with soul-deep practice, honoring abolitionist ideals while drawing strength from ancestors. Each ghost in the feed becomes a witness to my reclamation, affirming that liberation is both a personal act and a generational pledge.
In Closing: Blood Is Not Permission
Blood ties do not confer power; the family that surveils and stalks forfeits its sacred claim. They are attempting to feed on your growth, watching, waiting for your stumble. But they will not feast.
I offer this testament not only to expose their parasitic voyeurism but to venerate the wound that taught me to champion myself. Every screenshot I save, and every potential court form I file, is inked with defiance. Each act of documentation pulses with the rhythm of my heart: I archive trauma so I can map my future.
If your kin roam your Stories, know this: you hold the power to witness them witnessing you. That reflection, once sharp enough to cut, can be blunted by your resolve. You don't need their permission to heal, create, or rise. Your Story is yours. Their watching only proves that you are free.
References
California Code of Civil Procedure § 527.6 (West 2025).
Carter, G. (2018). Reconstructing “Hysteria”: The Racial Dimensions of Diagnosis. Journal of Black Studies, 49(1), 23–40.
Davis, A. (2019). Freedom Is a Constant Struggle: Ferguson, Palestine, and the Foundations of a Movement. Haymarket Books.
Morrison, T. (2017). Beloved (30th ed.). Knopf.
Okun, T. (2006). Toolbox for Change: A Guide to Building Collective Power. ChangeWork.
