social media

When it comes to Social Media, the perfect family photo is the digital equivalent of a white picket fence.

The king of pop Jackson Family Legacy (2009–2026)
Introduction For more than five decades, the Jackson family has been one of the most influential dynasties in entertainment history. From the rise of The Jackson 5 in the late 1960s to global solo careers, their cultural impact spans music, film, modeling, and philanthropy. Following the passing of Michael Jackson in 2009, the family entered a new era focused on preserving its legacy while embracing generational growth. As of 2026, the Jackson lineage spans four generations, with careers and public contributions continuing across the globe. First Generation: The Jackson Siblings Rebbie Jackson (b. 1950) Rebbie Jackson, the eldest of the siblings, has remained closely connected to family milestones while pursuing her music career. She has three children: Stacee Brown (b. 1971), Yashi Brown (b. 1973), and Austin Brown (b. 1985), and one grandchild, London Blue Salas (b. 2003). Rebbie has balanced public appearances with a largely private family life. Jackie Jackson (b. 1951) Jackie Jackson has maintained a presence in music and occasional public appearances while raising four children: Sigmund “Siggy” Jackson Jr. (b. 1977), Brandi Jackson (b. 1982), Jaylen Jackson (b. 1987), and River Jackson (b. 1992). He is also a grandfather to Jared Jackson (b. 2005), Kai-Ari Jackson (b. 2008), and Skyy Jackson (b. 2010), reflecting his continued role in supporting the family’s younger generations. Tito Jackson (1953–2024) Tito Jackson, who passed away in 2024, left behind a strong musical and familial legacy. His children include Taj Jackson (b. 1973), Taryll Jackson (b. 1975), TJ Jackson (b. 1978), and three younger children born between the 1980s and 1990s. Tito’s grandchildren include Royal Jackson (b. 2000), Bryce Connor Jackson (b. 2003), Dee Dee Jackson (b. 2005), Jordan “JoJo” Jackson (b. 2007), Adren Michael Jackson (b. 2010), and Rio Tito Joe Jackson (b. 2012). Tito’s influence continues through 3T and their extended families. Jermaine Jackson (b. 1954) Jermaine Jackson has one of the largest second-generation families in the Jackson lineage. His eight children are Jermaine Jackson Jr. (b. 1977), Autumn Jackson (b. 1978), Jaimy Jackson (b. 1987), Jeremy Jackson (b. 1996), Jourdynn Michael Jackson (b. 1998), Jaafar Jackson (b. 1996), Jermajesty Jackson (b. 2002), and Tahkyah Brings Plenty Jackson (b. 2008). Many of his children pursue acting, modeling, and music while focusing on education. Jaafar Jackson has gained attention for portraying his uncle Michael Jackson in the upcoming biographical film Michael, and Tahkyah Brings Plenty Jackson is active in acting, modeling, and activism, representing the family’s emerging fourth generation. La Toya Jackson (b. 1956) La Toya Jackson has remained engaged in media and television work. She has no children, but she continues to participate in public appearances and family events. Marlon Jackson (b. 1957) Marlon Jackson balances family life with nonprofit work and philanthropy. He has three children: Valencia Jackson (b. 1980), Brittany Jackson (b. 1982), and Marlon Jackson Jr. (b. 1984). His grandchildren include Noah Laniak (b. 2005), Sophia Laniak (b. 2007), Phoenix Sanchez (b. 2008), Savanna Bella Sanchez (b. 2010), and Summer Blue Sanchez (b. 2012). Randy Jackson (b. 1961) Randy Jackson maintains a private profile while raising three children: Genevieve Jackson (b. 1983), Steven Randall Jackson Jr. (b. 1985), and Stevanna Jackson (b. 1988). He continues to participate in family events while keeping much of his personal life out of the spotlight. Janet Jackson (b. 1966) Janet Jackson has balanced a highly successful global music career with motherhood. She has one child, Eissa Al Mana (b. 2017), and continues to influence music, acting, and advocacy projects worldwide. Michael Jackson (1958–2009) Michael Jackson’s children — Prince Michael Jackson (b. 1997), Paris-Michael Katherine Jackson (b. 1998), and Prince Michael Jackson II “Bigi” (b. 2002) — have gradually stepped into public life. They are involved in philanthropy, music, modeling, and film while maintaining privacy in their personal lives. The Third & Fourth Generations (2026) By 2026, the Jackson family spans over 20 children of the original siblings, dozens of grandchildren, and a growing fourth generation. The family’s influence continues across music, film, modeling, activism, and private business, maintaining recognition worldwide while nurturing the next generation of talent. The Jackson Family Today Seventeen years after Michael Jackson’s passing, the Jackson family remains a global cultural presence. While earlier decades were defined by intense media exposure, today’s family blends public careers with private development. Each sibling branch contributes to a multigenerational legacy, from Motown origins to modern film projects, demonstrating resilience, creativity, and unity across four generations.
By Allie Jackson a day ago in Families
The Future of Family Living: Building Tech That Solves Everyday Challenges
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By Adam Adlera day ago in Families
The Moment It Happens
The words “Congratulations! You’re pregnant” are uttered, life changes. No, this is not about those words. But life indeed changes with those words, as well. Nothing is ever the same after those words.
By Alexandra Grant5 days ago in Families
The Loneliest People Are the Most Liked
I have 3,842 followers. And no one to call when my chest feels heavy at 11:47 p.m. It sounds dramatic when I say it out loud, which is probably why I don’t say it. Instead, I post. A photo. A joke. A thoughtful caption about growth. A filtered version of a life that looks full. People respond the way they always do — hearts, laughing emojis, “You’re glowing lately,” “Proud of you,” “You’re such a positive soul.” Positive. That word follows me everywhere. I learned early that people like warmth. They like the friend who listens more than they speak. The one who remembers birthdays. The one who shows up smiling, even when they arrived tired. So I became that person. Not because I was fake — but because it worked. Being liked feels a lot like being safe. When you’re liked, people clap for you. They invite you places. They tag you in things. They assume you’re doing well. And assumptions are comfortable. No one looks too closely at someone who seems fine. I seem fine. The loneliest people aren’t the quiet ones in the corner. Sometimes they’re the loudest laugh in the room. The ones who know how to carry a conversation. The ones who can make strangers feel seen. I know how to make people feel seen. I just don’t know how to let them see me. There’s a difference. When you’re the “strong” friend, the “funny” friend, the “put-together” one, you slowly become a role instead of a person. And roles don’t get comforted. They perform. At gatherings, I float between groups like I belong everywhere. I ask questions. I remember details. I make connections. I leave with new followers, new contacts, new proof that I’m socially successful. And then I go home and sit on the edge of my bed in complete silence. No notifications feel the same as conversation. No heart emoji replaces eye contact. No comment section replaces someone noticing that your voice sounded off. Sometimes I scroll through my own profile to understand why I feel so empty. The grid is curated. Balanced. Happy. There’s evidence of friendships, coffee dates, achievements, small adventures. If someone studied my page, they’d think I’m surrounded. Maybe that’s why I don’t reach out when I need help. Who would believe the person who always looks okay? There’s a strange pressure in being well-liked. You don’t want to disappoint the image people hold of you. You don’t want to be “too much.” You don’t want to shift from inspiring to overwhelming. So you swallow the heaviness. You reply, “I’m good!” automatically. You become efficient at redirecting conversations away from yourself. You tell yourself loneliness is dramatic. After all, you’re constantly interacting. Constantly visible. But visibility isn’t intimacy. And being known is not the same as being recognized. I remember one night in particular. I had just posted something vulnerable — but not too vulnerable. Carefully measured honesty. The kind that hints at depth but doesn’t expose the wound. It went viral. Messages poured in. “Thank you for saying this.” “You always articulate things so well.” “You’re so brave.” I stared at the screen and felt nothing. Because bravery would have been telling someone specific, “I’m not okay.” Bravery would have been admitting that I feel invisible even when I’m admired. But admiration is addictive. It fills the surface. It doesn’t reach the center. The loneliest people are often the most liked because they learned how to survive by being agreeable. Being helpful. Being impressive. They built connection skills before they built vulnerability skills. I know how to network. I don’t know how to need. There’s a fear underneath it — what if people like the version of me that doesn’t ask for anything? What if the moment I reveal the mess, the overthinking, the quiet sadness, the confusion… the likes fade? So I maintain. I keep conversations light. I keep problems private. I keep performing stability. And the world rewards me for it. But sometimes, late at night, I wonder what it would feel like to be deeply understood instead of widely appreciated. To have one person notice the pause before I say “I’m fine.” To have someone call without a reason. To sit in silence with another human and not feel the need to entertain. Loneliness isn’t always about physical isolation. It’s about emotional distance. It’s about realizing that many people enjoy you, but very few truly know you. And maybe that’s partly my fault. Being liked gave me control. If I’m useful, funny, inspiring — people stay. If I’m messy, confused, uncertain — that feels risky. But slowly, I’m learning something uncomfortable. Connection requires risk. The kind where you let someone see the unedited version. The kind where you say, “I don’t have it together.” The kind where you admit you don’t want advice — just presence. The first time I told a friend, “I’ve been feeling really alone,” my voice shook. It felt dramatic. Unnecessary. Embarrassing. She didn’t laugh. She didn’t minimize it. She said, “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” I didn’t have an answer. Maybe because I was too busy being liked. Maybe because I confused applause with affection. Maybe because I thought needing someone would make me less admirable. But something shifted that night. A small crack in the performance. A small step away from being universally appreciated and slightly more personally known. I still have 3,842 followers. But now I also have one person who knows that sometimes, I sit on the edge of my bed and feel the weight of everything. And somehow, that one connection feels louder than all the notifications combined. The loneliest people are often the most liked. Not because they are fake. But because they learned how to shine in public and hide in private. I’m tired of hiding. I don’t want to be everyone’s favorite. I just want to be someone’s real.
By Faizan Malik5 days ago in Families
The Power of Presence
When “Good Parenting” Became a Feeling In modern parenting conversations, “good” has increasingly come to mean emotionally warm, verbally affirming, and immediately comforting. A good parent is expected to soothe distress quickly, validate feelings consistently, and minimize discomfort whenever possible. These traits are treated as obvious indicators of healthy parenting, reinforced by cultural messaging, therapeutic language, and social reward structures. When a child feels better in the moment, the parenting decision is assumed to have been correct, and when discomfort persists, the decision is often framed as a failure of care rather than a necessary part of development.
By Peter Thwing - Host of the FST Podcast7 days ago in Families
The Day Technology Saved Me and Changed How I See the World. AI-Generated.
Have you ever felt completely lost? Like you're stuck in a dark tunnel with no light at the end? I certainly have. Life throws us challenges, and sometimes they feel too big to handle. For me, that moment came during one of the hardest times in my life. I was overwhelmed, lonely, and felt like my world was shrinking. But then, something unexpected happened. A simple piece of technology didn't just help me; it literally saved me and showed me a new way to live.
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By Story Prism14 days ago in Families
James Van Der Beek: From Dawson Creek Heartthrob to Devoted Father and Legacy of Love
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By Story Prism16 days ago in Families
The Night Everything Fell Apart
The Night Everything Fell Apart Ubaid I used to believe that life collapses slowly—like a building with cracks that warn you before it falls. I was wrong. Sometimes, everything shatters in a single night. It was a Thursday evening when the sky looked strangely heavy, as if it knew something I didn’t. I remember sitting at my desk, pretending to work while my mind wandered through unfinished conversations and silent disappointments. My phone lay beside me, face down, as if hiding from the truth it was about to deliver. At 9:17 p.m., it rang. I almost didn’t answer. It was my younger sister, Areeba. She rarely called me at night. Her voice trembled when I picked up. “Bhai… you need to come home.” There are certain tones in a person’s voice that freeze your blood. This was one of them. “What happened?” I asked, already standing up, my heart racing. “Just come. Please.” The drive home felt endless. Every red light felt personal, as though the universe had chosen to delay me. My mind ran through a hundred possibilities—none of them good. By the time I reached the house, my hands were shaking. The front door was open. That was the first sign that something was wrong. Inside, the living room lights were on, but the house felt darker than ever. My mother sat on the couch, her face pale, her hands wrapped tightly around her scarf. Areeba stood beside her, eyes red from crying. “Where’s Abbu?” I asked. No one answered. That silence said more than words ever could. “He left,” my mother finally whispered. Left. The word didn’t make sense. My father wasn’t the kind of man who “left.” He was the quiet pillar of our home—the one who paid the bills, fixed broken taps, and watched the news every night at exactly 10 p.m. “He said he couldn’t do this anymore,” Areeba said, her voice cracking. “He packed a bag and walked out.” It felt like the floor shifted beneath me. For years, I had noticed the tension. The late-night arguments behind closed doors. The cold silences at dinner. The forced smiles during family gatherings. But I had convinced myself it was temporary. Every family has problems, I thought. We’ll get through it. That night, I realized denial can be a dangerous comfort. “Did he say where he’s going?” I asked. My mother shook her head. “He just said he needs peace.” Peace. The word echoed bitterly in my mind. What about us? What about the peace of the family he was leaving behind? I walked into my parents’ bedroom. The cupboard door was slightly open. Half his clothes were gone. His watch box was empty. On the bedside table, there was a folded piece of paper. It wasn’t addressed to anyone. Just a few lines in his familiar handwriting: I tried. I really did. But sometimes staying hurts more than leaving. Forgive me. I read it three times, hoping the meaning would change. It didn’t. Anger rose inside me like fire. How could he walk away? How could he leave my mother to explain this to relatives, to neighbors, to a society that thrives on whispers? How could he leave Areeba, who still needed him to check her math homework? And how could he leave me—with the sudden weight of being “the man of the house”? That night, everything fell apart—not just our family structure, but the illusions I had built around it. Around midnight, the power went out. Normally, we would joke about the timing. That night, no one said a word. The house sank into darkness, lit only by the faint glow of streetlights filtering through the curtains. I sat on the floor beside my mother. For the first time in my life, she looked small. “I failed,” she murmured. “You didn’t,” I said quickly, though I wasn’t sure what I believed. “This isn’t your fault.” But blame has a way of creeping into broken spaces. It fills the gaps with questions that have no answers. Around 2 a.m., my phone buzzed. A message from Abbu. Take care of them. That was it. No explanation. No location. No promise to return. Just a responsibility handed over like an inheritance. I stared at the screen, my chest tight. I wanted to call him, to shout, to demand answers. Instead, I turned the phone off. Because deep down, I knew this wasn’t just about one fight or one bad day. This was years of unspoken pain finally spilling over. As the night stretched on, reality settled in. Tomorrow, I would have to face relatives asking uncomfortable questions. I would have to manage finances I barely understood. I would have to be strong for my sister when I felt like collapsing myself. But in that darkness, something unexpected happened. We talked. For the first time in years, my mother opened up about her loneliness. About how silence had replaced partnership. About how pride had stopped both of them from seeking help. Areeba admitted she had heard more arguments than we realized. And I confessed that I had seen the cracks but chose to ignore them because it was easier than confronting the truth. The night that broke us also stripped us of pretenses. By dawn, the sky softened into pale blue. Birds began to chirp as if nothing had changed. But everything had. Our family would never look the same again. There would be judgment, financial strain, and emotional wounds that wouldn’t heal overnight. There would be moments of anger and days of deep sadness. Yet, as sunlight slowly filled the room, I understood something important: Falling apart doesn’t always mean the end. Sometimes, it’s the beginning of rebuilding—without lies, without forced smiles, without pretending everything is fine. That night, I lost the version of my family I thought I had. But I gained something else. Clarity. Strength I didn’t know I possessed. And the painful, necessary understanding that love cannot survive where honesty is absent. The night everything fell apart was the worst night of my life.
By Ubaid 16 days ago in Families
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