The Screens Glowed. The Silence Roared.
On Thursday night in New York City, I stood alongside committed families, youth advocates, legal partners, and changemakers at an outdoor space illuminated by 50 smartphone-shaped lightboxes, each standing 4.5 feet tall. But this wasn’t a gallery opening. It was a memorial.
Each “phone” displayed the lock screen photo of a child whose life was cut short by the harms of social media. But it was more than just their image that haunted the space. Each screen showed the exact time their life ended — a time frozen on the screen, just as their lives were. Haunting. Inescapable.
This was the Lost Screen Memorial, created by The Archewell Foundation as part of their No Child Lost to Social Media campaign. A collaboration with the Social Media Victims Law Center and the Archewell Parents’ Network, it was raw, bold, and impossible to walk away from unchanged.
The night before, in a private gathering, Prince Harry and Meghan Markle joined the families for a quiet vigil. There were no speeches. Just presence. Just grief. Just remembrance. I wasn’t there that night — but I heard from several of the parents what it meant to be met not with platitudes, but with care.
On Thursday, I joined them. The doors were opened to allies and advocates — those of us who’ve been working from different corners of this movement. I came as part of my work to hold platforms accountable and push for systemic change. But nothing could have prepared me for the emotional weight of the installation itself.
“Each phone showed the time when their life ended. Frozen. Final. Just as their lives were.”
This work often lives in the abstract — legislation, metrics, engagement curves, policy briefs. But Thursday wasn’t abstract. It was faces. Names. Stories. Parents who told me, in real time, how their child had been groomed, preyed upon, or pushed toward self-harm by algorithms that optimize for addiction and profit.
And they’re not alone. The Social Media Victims Law Center now represents more than 4,000 children. They’ve filed over 1,200 complaints in the U.S. alone. These aren’t anecdotes. This is a public health emergency.
The families who gathered Thursday night didn’t come to mourn in silence. Many of them have been fighting this fight for years — lobbying lawmakers, filing lawsuits, building support groups, and pushing tech companies to take responsibility. Their advocacy isn’t new. It’s relentless. What’s changed is that the world is finally starting to listen. Slowly. Unevenly. But the cracks are forming.
I’ve come to this work through a different door — leading a nonprofit that challenges platform power and advocates for digital safety. I’ve convened researchers, youth leaders, and policy thinkers. I’ve built coalitions. But Thursday night, I wasn’t there as an expert. I was there to listen, to witness, and to stand in solidarity.
“These aren’t cautionary tales. They were children.”
Prince Harry, speaking the night before, said something that echoes louder now than ever:
“Some of these stories — these are crime scenes. And these companies are getting away with it.”
Meghan added:
“All of our children should be safe.”
What struck me most was how universal this message really is. No matter your politics, your background, or your screen-time rules — what parent doesn’t feel a jolt of fear when they think about what their child is being exposed to online?
One father at the memorial said:
“These are the children we lost. But we don’t yet have photographs of the children who’ll be saved.”
That line has stayed with me.
The Lost Screen Memorial was only open for 24 hours — but a virtual version lives on, where you can read the stories of each child and, in some cases, hear personal messages from their families. I urge you to visit it. Listen. Witness.
“The memorial isn’t the end. It’s the beginning.”
We need platform reform. Real enforcement. Algorithmic transparency. Default safety settings that don’t require parents to be engineers. And we need policy with teeth — like the Take It Down Act — to pass, not stall.
There’s a phrase I heard again and again that night:
“Safe by design.”
That’s the future we need to build. Not safer, but safe — by intent, by structure, by default. Anything else is negligence.
The parents at that memorial should not have to keep showing up and reliving their worst day just to get a headline. They do it because too many others won’t. They do it because they’ve already lost everything. They do it so others won’t have to.
I left Thursday night with a deeper sense of purpose, but also a heavier heart. This work has urgency. The systems we’re fighting are massive, but not immovable. We know what needs to be done. The question is whether we’ll act fast enough.
The screens glowed. The silence roared. Let’s not look away.
