Marked in Stone, Marked in Record

A gravestone proves someone lived.
A public record proves someone still exists.

When existence has no marker

My mother was buried in 1985 and for almost forty years her grave had no marker. Visiting meant going into a small cemetery office, asking for her information, waiting while someone opened a file drawer and searched through paper records, and then following a groundskeeper outside to count rows and numbers along the grass until we arrived at the right patch of earth. Nothing visible confirmed her presence. Only a set of coordinates, a piece of paper, and memory. The absence of a marker didn’t erase who she was, but it made her hard to find, hard to verify, and difficult to honor.

“A gravestone doesn’t prevent loss, but it prevents erasure.”

A gravestone turns a private truth into a public presence. It says this person lived, this person mattered, this person is here. It anchors identity to place, holding memory in the real world long after those who remember are gone.

Markers turn memory into presence

Today, memory is no longer held only by relatives or institutions. Machines and platforms now determine who we are by assembling scattered fragments—articles, social profiles, podcasts, bios, business listings, obituaries, comments, posts. When platforms and algorithms guess incorrectly, they merge identities, revise histories, or leave gaps where verification should be. Where we once feared being forgotten by people, we now risk being rewritten by systems.

“Where we once feared being forgotten by people, we now risk being rewritten by systems.”

Digital presence is not permanence

Most people assume their identity is safely represented online through Facebook, LinkedIn, YouTube, TikTok, or their collection of accomplishments spread across the web. But these are platforms, not markers. They can delete accounts, shut down pages, merge histories, misattribute work, rewrite timelines, or disappear entirely. When platforms own the record, platforms own the memory. Visibility does not guarantee permanence.

“When platforms own the record, platforms own the memory.”

A gravestone marks that a life existed; a public record marks that an identity continues. A digital public record—held outside the control of social platforms and attention cycles—functions as the equivalent of a marker in a cemetery. It does not sentimentalize a person; it verifies them. It confirms who someone is, what they achieved, and what belongs to them. It tracks continuity over time so that their identity cannot be merged, rewritten, or lost simply because algorithms collapse similar names.

Permanence now requires record

Not having a gravestone didn’t make my mother less real, but it made her less findable. In the same way, not having a public record doesn’t make someone less accomplished—but it makes their identity more fragile. What is not marked can be misplaced. What is not recorded can be overwritten.

“What is not marked can be misplaced. What is not recorded can be overwritten.”

We used to believe that visibility—being seen, heard, known—was enough to preserve identity. But visibility is temporary and platforms are temporary. Continuity requires record. Without it, identity is vulnerable to disappearance, not just after death but while someone is still alive.

A gravestone does not prove someone was loved; it proves someone lived. A public record does not prove someone was important; it proves someone existed in a way that can be confirmed, long after platforms fade.

“Marked in stone, you cannot be lost. Marked in record, you cannot be erased.”

A gravestone anchors a life to a place. A public record anchors a person to time. Both say, in different materials, that someone lived and that their existence can be confirmed.

Protect Your Legacy. https://www.publicrecordregistry.org/start/