For me, scrolling through social media has become nothing short of a jump scare event.
What is it that gives me the whole-body shivers? Politics? Nah, don’t care. Social Issues? Nah, you do you, Boo. Bad News? Nah, I’ve been watching the news since I was 7.
What is it, then, that makes me spit out my morning coffee or cringe in horror?
It’s the sheer amount of graphic, deeply personal imagery that appears without warning.
Surely I’m not the only one who has noticed this?
I’m scrolling along, hoping to get a glimpse into my friends’ lives: pics of kids or grandkids, vacation scenery, funny memes, graduation or wedding shots, maybe a particularly interesting squirrel in the backyard or a lovely plate of farm-to-table cuisine. And peppered among these celebratory or foodie-centric posts are some fairly startling images, the impact of which I’m not sure the poster has fully considered.
What are these graphic pics? Erotica? Nah, not my friends. Sexy bikinis? Nah, at least not intentionally. Well, what then?
Okay, let’s start at the hospital, Janet. It’s 6 am and I’m barely choking down my morning vitamins with a hot cup of Joe, and last night you posted a pic, online for all to see, of your swollen appendage sporting an open wound oozing bloody goo.
Ick.
Now, I get it. You’ve been hurt. It’s bad. You need about a million or so stitches–the most they’ve ever done!–and it will take you months to recover, and even then, you’ll need plastic surgery–the most they’ve ever done!–and you’re in pain, and it’s bad, and you’re traumatized. I sympathize! You’re hurting and you want the comfort of others. You want to show the world that things aren’t as they once were. You want to be acknowledged.
I understand your motivation. Truly, I do.
You might be in shock and documenting a painful experience in real time. You might be asking for prayers, advice, care, or support. You might be grieving and trying to make sense of something heartbreaking. Trauma often longs to be witnessed, and social media has become the place where many people process life publicly. I don’t question that the pain behind many of these posts is real, valid, and deserves recognition.
Lord knows, I’ve posted my own pain–ad nauseum!–for many of you. My life has been permanently altered and I work out some of my grief on social media. Sorry. Not sorry?
At the same time, I think it is possible to hold two truths at once: compassion for someone’s experience and discomfort with being unexpectedly exposed to graphic imagery.
I had back fusion surgery in April and have yet to publicly show a picture of the incision or x-ray images of the metal screws in my spine. Not that I’m some superhero…but really!
The sheer number of medical procedures, injured body parts, deceased animals, car accidents, and other intensely personal moments of suffering or trauma feels, to me at least, a tad too much. One minute I’m smiling at a family photo (Zac got married!), and the next, I’m staring at something that leaves my stomach churning and my heart breaking.
Caring about what happened to someone does not automatically mean I want to see every visual detail of it. I can feel genuine sorrow for your injury without needing a close-up photograph of your million stitches or bloody ooze. I can grieve with someone over the loss of a beloved pet without wanting to encounter an image of the animal after death while eating my morning eggs. I can acknowledge a terrible car accident without needing a slideshow of the crumpled metal and blood-spattered shattered glass.
Perhaps that sounds old-fashioned of me.
Or maybe uncaring. But if you know me, you know I’m a caring person! I do care. I do pray. I do react with concern and sympathy.
But I sometimes wonder if we have lost something important. Something called “discretion.”
Not long ago, difficult or graphic images generally came with context and boundaries. The evening news warned viewers before showing distressing footage. Medical photographs existed in medical settings. Sensitive moments tended to remain among close family and friends unless there was a compelling reason to share them more broadly. There was a stronger understanding that not everything painful needed to be publicly displayed to be meaningful or valid.
Given the content, social media these days often feels like emotional whiplash.
Our feeds move seamlessly from birthday parties to tragedy, from Bible verses to graphic medical photos, from celebrations to scenes of devastation—all without warning and often without much thought given to how those images might affect others.
Yes, I know, I know…I’m hearing you say, “Can you imagine how THEY feel?” True. But my point in this post is that I can empathize with a post filled with words. We all can. We don’t need pictures to care.
I suspect part of what troubles me is not simply the images themselves, but the assumption that everything should be documented and publicly shared. Somewhere along the way, we absorbed the belief that if something significant happens, we are expected to document it, to post it. Pain, loss, fear, injuries, hospital visits, deeply private moments—everything has become content.
But should everything be?
Not every experience benefits from an audience. Not every painful moment needs photographic evidence to be believed or understood. Some things can still be discussed with dignity rather than displayed in graphic detail. There is something to be said for protecting the privacy of our suffering, or at the very least considering whether others are prepared to see what we are about to share.
I realize some may disagree with me, and you have every right to do so. You may argue that people can simply scroll past or look away. But the reality is that social media rarely offers us the luxury of preparation. Images appear instantly, often before our minds have even registered what we are seeing. We cannot always unsee something disturbing, and some images linger much longer than we would like.
None of this means I care less about people who are hurting. In fact, perhaps it means I care more deeply than ever. I still want to know when someone is struggling. I still want to pray, encourage, and show compassion. But increasingly, I find myself wishing we remembered that caring for others also includes caring about how we share our pain.
Maybe the question worth asking is not simply, “Can I post this?” but “Should I?”
And perhaps just as importantly: “What effect might this have on the people quietly carrying burdens of their own?”
Because sometimes kindness looks like vulnerability…and sometimes kindness looks like restraint.