Am I a Bad Mom for Posting Photos of My Kid?

By Courtney Falsey

When my son was about a year and a half, I posted a funny clip of us to Instagram and TikTok that went viral. (The video in question was of my baby identifying me as the “cranky emotion” in the The Feelings Book by Todd Carr.)

I interact with Instagram the way most people do: sharing snippets of my life when I feel like it, using it as a work tool, and doomscrolling. (The holy trifecta!) My son is the center of my universe and since he was born, I frequently post photos and videos of him. When it seemed like only my friends and family were looking, I didn’t think much of it. But, ever since my one-hit-wonder and strangers began tuning in, whenever I throw up a cute story with my son in it, I feel a twinge of: Maybe you shouldn’t do that.

According to a recent Italian study on “sharenting” (ugh), or the act of parents’ sharing their kids online when you post a photo or video, you effectively lose all ownership over it. Once it’s out there, it’s pretty much out there. Posting on your child’s birthday risks potential identity theft. Posting a tearful tantrum may contribute to their “future emotional distress.” In 2024, Human Rights Watch reported that hundreds of children’s photos containing personal information had been scraped from the Internet and used to train popular AI tools without their consent, leaving them vulnerable to exploitation. It appeared, in some cases, that privacy measures had even been taken. Not to mention, most horrifyingly, that Instagram’s algorithms allegedly promote pedophile networks. 

Yet, given all of this, 75% percent of parents, including public figures whose privacy concerns are greater than mine (some of whom I would imagine are experts in this area by necessity), still share their kids. When I see other moms post photos with smiley heart eyes emojis over their baby’s faces or a strategic shot of the back of their child’s head, I can’t help but feel like a moral line has been drawn—and I’m on the wrong side of it. Why then, do I keep doing it? I’m a responsible, safety-first parent everywhere else, why is it so difficult to stop sharing my kid online?

The optimistic answer is that I’m drawn to what social media initially sold us on: the promise of connection. That, and like every other mother, I’m obsessed with my child. The urge to let others in on my kid’s milestones; this funny thing that happened; and sometimes, the hard stuff is strong. It’s the content that I’m personally here for in this stage of life. Instagram is the most convenient, wide-reaching, and usually, most satisfying way to scratch the itch of “look at how amazing my kid is!” Sharing the tough can foster community, whereas the good elicits a sense of pride and, dare I say (in a whisper), it can even be fun. Not even an hour ago I watched a video of three young kids re-enacting the last dance from The First Wives Club in full costume. The one playing Diane Keaton’s part was maybe four and wearing an ill-fitting wig reminiscent of Edna Mode’s bob in The Incredibles. This is what the Internet was made for. 

The potential threats lurking in the dark corners of cyberspace often feel like one more hypothetical to worry about when there are so many other less-pixelated worries right in front of me. As parents we learn early on that risk, unfortunately, is everywhere. A few weeks after giving birth, I got a notice from the hospital that my health information and my son’s may have been exposed in a cyber attack, leaving us vulnerable to identity theft. 

If you have a smart phone and you take photos that are then uploaded to the cloud, like, at all, there’s a good chance they’re being used to train AI pending whether or not you’ve toggled the right setting and even then, whose to say it isn’t still doing it? If, if, if. No wonder our stress levels have been deemed a public health concern. No wonder 75% of us surrender to the dopamine hit that is tapping post and hope it’s ok to say “fuck it” just on this one thing. We live in a rapidly changing, hyper-digital world. Most of the time, trying to outrun it feels impossible.   

The first time I posted my son on Instagram, it was to announce his birth. I was in bed, half-crazed due to sleep deprivation, my tiny five pound, four ounce baby swaddled in his bassinet next to me. I realized it’d been one week since he’d arrived, he was practically ancient in Internet terms, and out of nowhere, this intense need to tell the world that I was now someone’s mother began to nag at me. In my deluded state, the old adage haunted me: If you have a baby and don’t post them to Instagram, did you have a baby at all? (I assure you, you did. I did.) I know this isn’t healthy. 

I’m not immune to the pressure to post in order to maintain a semblance of relevancy. I think it’s why a lot of new mothers “find themselves” (in both senses of the phrase) online. Right now I’m largely a mother who writes, which is to say I’m with my son a lot and he is usually the most interesting thing about my days. It’s commonplace for many of us to feel like we should post for work and visibility’s sake even when we don’t have much to say. I have complicated feelings around the times my son gets wrapped up in the “should.” 

To completely put my mind at ease, I could not post my child at all. But, if my aim is to be authentic when I do show up online, how do I cut him out of that? I guess by utilizing the heart eyes smiley face emoji whenever he’s in a photo, but personally, that tactic doesn’t appeal to me. My son’s eyes are the most piercing blue, a trait he inherited from my own mother. I think covering them would result in some kind of digital hex. Sometimes, though, I do intentionally put up photos of the back of his head or his side profile to feel cleansed.

Perhaps, it’s this desire for cleanliness that’s most telling. The larger concerns weigh on me, but I also don’t have a lot of respect for most forms of social media—the divisions it’s caused; the anxiety, depression and comparisons it drives; and the tacky, sales Expo feel it now has. My son is so sweet and pure, I feel guilty putting his image inside such a place.  

If there’s one thing I know mothers don’t need, it’s another moral conundrum, another points system to grade ourselves against. Maybe, things don’t have to be that deep. Maybe they do. I don’t know. Since I do post my son, I’ve implemented some safeguards. I never list his full name or post any photos of him in a state of undress. I also don’t post photos of his school and I try to be respectful when it comes to what I do show. These things, at least, buy me the illusion of control.   

The other day, we were at the park with a school friend of my son’s and her mom. His little friend fell and got upset. He went to her and said, “I’m here. I’m here.” (This is what I say to him when he calls out for me in the night or bumps his head.) I know that the quality of my mothering doesn’t hinge on posting my son online. 

Maybe, the question I need to be asking is if social media is serving me, or if I’m serving it. And to this, without a shadow of a doubt, I know the answer.   

Courtney is a freelance writer with work in New York magazine’s The Strategist, Who What Wear, The Zoe Report and more. She also writes Don’t Forget to Call Mom!, a newsletter on motherhood.