This morning, I read a comment on a story I posted on a client’s page that elevated my blood pressure ever-so-slightly. Listen, I’m the first to tell you not to read the comments if you get your feelings hurt easily, not to reply, not to let any of that rubbish get to you. The internet is full of madness (madness I tell you!), and there is no sense in getting worked up over any of it.

That being said, as a responsible partner, it’s my job to keep an eye on the comments and manage anything unfortunate on the pages of the clients I’m so fortunate to work with. That includes but is not limited to the flurry of bots that flock to racer pages like ants to sugar. They’re bothersome little pests that require management so that they don’t overtake the kitchen, those bots.

So, I post a story, one that I wrote with a heart full of love (because that’s the only way I know how to write), and amongst many positive and encouraging comments for the client, a gentleman typed, with his whole being, something along the lines of, “I’m not going to read all that, just tell me what happened.”

My face flushed. My entire existence, my heart and soul and brain, my very life centers around writing words, writing many, many words. I write words to tell the story, to preserve moments, to give us something to access later as we try to remember what really happened in its finest details.

Results are important, predictions have a place, but have you not room in your mind to absorb a story or two? I took immediate offense, dear reader, immediate and passionate offense. I did not, however, reply. I wanted to. I started to. But I did not.

The restraint, the absolute restraint!

And then, as I do, I went about my day and let myself think about it in the background. As I was upside down drying my hair, a thought came to mind. That comment matters naught to the overall picture, and it could be deleted in one key punch by either the host of the page or the poster. And that reminded me, distantly of this: one of the problematic things about social media is that it isn’t actually permanent. We don’t own what we put up there, we don’t control who grabs our content and uses it for their own benefit, good or bad. In fact — and this is the point that keeps coming up for me again and again — every single thing we post can be wiped out instantly by a bad guy, a glitch, or by the demise of the platform itself. The comments aren’t that big of a deal; they just remind me of the temporary nature of this way of doing life.

Social media is not the place for your historical archive, my friends. All of those amazing photos and words can be taken from beneath you, and maybe that doesn’t matter to you, but it matters to me. Do you need a book? Maybe not. But take it from a girl who cares about the history of her family and what made her who she is, you need more than a reliance on memory. Your grandkids are going to want to know.

My grandchildren aren’t likely to search Facebook to learn about my dad, their great grandfather and one of the coolest people on the planet. I have words and photos that are just for them and for the children of their children. Our family’s legacy is preserved. I hope every single person reading this takes steps to have the same. We need to use social media as it is right now, it absolutely serves a purpose (make your sponsors proud!), but don’t let that amazing content be all that there is. Have your own website, have old fashioned photo albums, have the stories written down and accessible. Share them with your loved ones off-line. Write your own story, or pay someone appropriately to write it for you.

It may not be pretty, but it’s yours. And it matters, unlike comments on social media — although those comments might spur you toward an important thought or two.

See you out there (I’ll be the one with the notebook and pen in hand, reminding myself not to let comments lead me astray).