There’s this story I’ll never forget. A woman I once coached had finally left her abusive ex after years of manipulation and control. She moved across the state, changed her number, and even used a different version of her name. For a while, she felt invisible — in the good way. Then one night she typed her name into Google out of curiosity. Her old address, phone number, relatives, and even a photo popped up on a site she’d never heard of. She said it felt like “the past just found me again.”
I’ve heard too many versions of that story since then. Survivors of domestic violence go through hell to disappear — legally, emotionally, and sometimes literally. Then a “people search” site scrapes old public data, packages it neatly, and sells it for a few bucks. All those court filings, old phone listings, and property records that were once buried in local offices now live online, waiting for anyone — including abusers — to click and find them. It’s chilling when you think about it.
The National Network to End Domestic Violence (NNEDV) has spoken out about this problem for years. They’ve pushed tech companies and lawmakers to recognize how dangerous open access to personal data can be for survivors. The issue isn’t just privacy — it’s safety. When someone has a history of stalking, control, or violence, knowing your new city or even your relatives’ names can undo everything you’ve built to stay safe.
What makes it worse is how easy it is. Sites like Spokeo, BeenVerified, Whitepages, and dozens more thrive on aggregation — pulling data from “public records” like voter registrations, court filings, real estate deeds, and phone directories. It’s legal, technically, but morally it feels way off. Survivors didn’t consent to have their safety sold for subscription fees. Yet that’s what’s happening every day under the name of “public information.”
I read something from the Federal Trade Commission that really hit home. They called out data brokers years ago, saying this system lacks transparency — that consumers often don’t even know these companies exist, let alone that they’re collecting and selling their personal details. For survivors, that invisibility cuts both ways. You disappear from your old life, but the data doesn’t forget you.
And trying to remove yourself? That’s its own nightmare. Many of these sites bury their “opt-out” links or make the process intentionally hard. Some require ID verification — which means sending yet another copy of your personal information to the same ecosystem that exposed you in the first place. It’s like trying to close a leak by pouring more water into the bucket.
One survivor I spoke to said she went through twelve separate removal requests in one week, only to find her info republished months later through a different data broker. She said, “It’s like I’m playing whack-a-mole with my own name.” That image stuck with me because it perfectly describes the emotional exhaustion of trying to stay safe in a system that’s designed for exposure, not protection.
Some states are trying to fix this. California’s Consumer Privacy Act (CCPA) and Virginia’s Consumer Data Protection Act give residents the right to request deletion of their personal data. But even then, the enforcement is spotty, and most people don’t even know how to exercise those rights. Meanwhile, data brokers operate across state lines — so one law can’t stop the flow completely. It’s like locking one door in a house that has twenty exits.
There’s also a deeper conversation here about responsibility. Should the burden really be on survivors to chase down every website that’s posting their information? Or should these companies have a legal duty to verify how that data could be used before publishing it? The Data Privacy Act of 2023 tried to start that conversation, but like most privacy bills, it’s been crawling through committees while people’s safety hangs in the balance.
And it’s not just theoretical. There have been real cases where stalkers used online databases to track people down. One report from The Washington Post shared stories of survivors who moved states and still got found within months because data brokers sold their new addresses to anyone who searched their name. You read that and think — how is this even legal?
Every time I talk to someone going through this, I try to remind them that they’re not crazy for feeling paranoid. They’re responding to a system that really does make it easy for dangerous people to find them again. There’s a sort of cruel irony in it: the more transparent society becomes, the more vulnerable the people who need invisibility the most feel.
So what can survivors do right now, while laws catch up? The NNEDV’s Safety Net Project recommends starting with data removal tools like DeleteMe or Abine, which automate the opt-out process. They’re not perfect, but they save time. The FTC also offers guides on protecting personal data online. Beyond that, it’s about staying intentional — using alternate contact info, limiting public social profiles, and checking what’s visible under your name regularly.
Still, I wish survivors didn’t have to do this alone. When safety becomes a DIY project, something’s broken at a much larger level. Maybe that’s what this whole discussion comes down to — accountability. Because privacy shouldn’t be a luxury for those who can afford subscription removals. It should be a right, especially for people who already had their control taken from them once.
I think about that first woman sometimes — the one who saw her new life exposed online. She eventually moved again, and this time she went even quieter. She used a P.O. box, scrubbed her digital footprint, and changed her name legally. But she said something I still can’t shake. “I keep deleting myself, but I never really get to feel gone.” That sentence says everything you need to know about what’s wrong with the system. We built technology to connect people, but somewhere along the way, we forgot how to protect them.
If you or someone you know is navigating this, the National Domestic Violence Hotline is available 24/7. They can help with safety planning and direct you to advocates who understand how digital privacy intersects with abuse. Because safety shouldn’t depend on whether a website decides to cooperate — it should be something survivors can trust without fighting for it.
