You Were Never Anonymous
They Were Always Watching
You were never anonymous. Not even in the womb.
They’ll tell you tracking started with social media, smartphones, facial recognition. But that’s not true. It started long before you ever touched a device. Before your first photo. Before you had a name.
They’ve always been watching—just not in the way you think.
Not with binoculars or black vans.
With records. With metrics. With patterns.
Through clinics, schools, pediatric assessments, government forms your parents didn’t think twice about filling out.
You were sorted early. Flagged. Indexed. Compared against baseline development charts, early literacy scores, temperament, response to authority, behavioral deviation. All of it recorded. Not to protect you. To predict you.
That’s the part no one talks about.
All those “early interventions,” all those “screenings,” all those “supports”—they fed into systems that exist to map and control human potential. You don’t need a dystopia when you can guide people into self-limiting behavior before they hit puberty. You just need enough information. Enough influence. A long enough window.
And they had that.
They had your blood type. Your school performance. Your home environment. Your medical history. Your vaccination record. Your food preferences. Your fears. Your allergies. Your sleep cycles. Your response to separation.
They didn’t need to implant a chip.
They trained you to carry one.
You logged in. You shared. You submitted.
You filled in the gaps for them.
Because that’s what we were taught to do.
If you had a meltdown in class, it went in your file.
If you showed signs of sensitivity, you were redirected.
If you asked too many questions, you were identified.
If you didn’t make eye contact the way they liked, if you refused to speak, if you said too much—they made a note.
And it wasn’t just teachers or doctors.
It was church volunteers. Camp counselors. Youth program staff. Coaches.
All of them trained—formally or informally—to notice the outliers. To report the behaviors. To watch for the warning signs.
Some of us were noticed because we were struggling.
But some of us were noticed because we were shining.
And that kind of brightness makes people nervous.
So they contained it.
They called it evaluation.
They called it monitoring.
They called it care.
And maybe they believed that.
But what they were really doing was cataloging threat.
To the classroom. To the system. To the hierarchy. To the quiet compliance that keeps the machine running.
Most people don’t realize how early the machine starts.
By the time you’re six, they already know how you’ll probably turn out.
If you’ll follow rules. If you’ll need medication. If you’ll push limits.
If you’re going to pose a problem—or expose one.
Some kids get pushed toward leadership.
Some get sedated.
Some get watched.
Some get discarded.
And some get tracked, quietly, year after year, because something in them never quite made sense.
Too alert. Too intuitive. Too raw.
Not traumatized in the right ways.
Not distracted enough to let go of the thread.
If you’re one of those kids, you probably had a strange relationship with authority.
Maybe you respected it, but you didn’t trust it.
Maybe you could see through people. Maybe you knew things before they told you.
Maybe you noticed when someone was lying, even if you didn’t know the words for it yet.
And maybe at some point, you wondered why you were so tired.
Why you felt watched.
Why you kept being misunderstood, redirected, documented, corrected.
It’s because you were interfering with the model.
The systems they built weren’t made to contain actual awareness.
They were made to replicate docility.
To flatten genius into productivity.
To turn children into digestible versions of themselves.
You wouldn’t cooperate.
You couldn’t.
And they tracked that, too.
They needed to know when you broke.
When you gave in.
When you stopped resisting.
When you stopped telling the truth.
When you let the story replace the knowing.
And if you never did, they just kept adjusting. Changing the setting. Changing the script. Changing the handler. Moving the goalposts.
If you’re here now, still intact—still aware—then you were never meant to make it this far with your soul in one piece.
But you did.
They tracked your patterns.
But they couldn’t erase your design.
They built a system that predicted everyone but the ones who remembered.
And you remember.
Which means now, it’s your move.