As someone with a child in the US, this new Trump threat to scrutinise tourists’ social media is concerning. Providing my user name would be OK – the authorities would get sick of scrolling through chicken pics before they found anything critical of their Glorious Leader – but what if I have to hand over my phone at the border, as has happened to some travellers already? I would rather get deported.
There’s nothing criminal or egregiously immoral on there; I don’t foment revolution or indulge in Trump trolling, tempting as that would be. But my phone does not paint a flattering picture of me. Does anyone’s? Those shiny black rectangles have become contemporary confessionals, and we would like to believe they abide by the same kind of confidentiality rules.
There’s a jokey online trend of people posting pictures of themselves weeping, with the caption that their partner checked their phone for infidelity, but found “something much worse” – the next image reveals it’s the calculator app, used for infant-level arithmetic (15-9 say, or 300 x 2). Occasionally, it’s a daft Google search (“quickest way to make money” “how to stop being batshit crazy”) or simply a million open tabs full of weirdness.
And this is just stuff that people will admit to (or pretend; some of those sums have to be a joke). What about the rest? In the comments under photographs and videos, women express horror at imagining their ChatGPT prompts or Notes app being scrutinised (“I have a note that says ‘If husband cheats, release the crickets,’ and I do NOT want him to question me about it,” one says, which particularly piqued my interest).
Almost every app on my phone has embarrassing content, even seemingly innocuous ones. My calculator reveals a recent tussle with 16 x 3 and my calendar contains reminders that no functional adult should need. “Check big pears” is arguably reasonable – we all know pears have a five-second window of edibility – but there’s stuff like “Drink water”, “Stand up!” (relics of abandoned attempts at wellness) and “DEODORANT!” – a recent and essential addition after many sweaty days forgetting. YouTube is all videos about the phallic-looking Korean skincare gadget I bought in a moment of self-loathing, but am too scared to use; photos contains selfies that must be destroyed with fire and Netflix reveals that I only watch Manhattan property agents with faces smooth as eggs and five-inch spike heels fighting over luxury beige penthouses.
It gets worse: imagining anyone seeing my TikTok “For You” page (where the algorithm offers up what you’ve shown a moment’s interest in, or predicts you’ll like), is unbearable. A cursory swipe would reveal I’ll stare at any number of fit youths slopping yoghurt into bowls to hit their protein goals, have a morbid fear of “overactive traps” (it’s a weightlifting thing) and harbour the delusion that I can learn to do a handstand when I gave up gymnastics aged eight. It’s not a version of myself fit for public consumption.
My phone enabled me to become this idiotic, and now it holds its secrets over me, lurking ominously beyond the lockscreen. I’m certain everyone feels similarly, but it’s hard to prove because no one wants to share what’s in their rectangle of shame. I elicited enough anonymous admissions, though – a daily step count of 60, a food diary that’s exclusively chocolate, photos of facial buboes, pelvic floor exercise prompts – to know none of us would be cool with our phones facing public scrutiny.
Yet we’re leaving our vanities and vulnerabilities, our big and little secrets, our precious data, in the hands of tech companies, and that could lead to worse than embarrassment, especially for women. In 2022, a study suggested the majority of period-tracker apps share data with third parties; Facebook has disclosed private messages to assist an abortion prosecution; this year, the UK National Police Chiefs’ Council issued guidance on searching women’s phones after pregnancy loss.
Even my foggy brain, full of shoulder mobility “hacks” and Taylor Swift dance routines, can see that that’s bad. Given that I need digital reminders for basic acts of personal hygiene, I can’t realistically commit to an intellectually rigorous, entirely offline life. But as a bare minimum, in 2026, I’ve resolved to put my darkest, weirdest, worst thoughts on paper.
• Emma Beddington is a Guardian columnist
