You're kind of at a standstill. It's really heartbreaking to lose a part of them.
When Marija Milisavljević's husband died of leukaemia at thirty-four, she turned to the digital world to preserve what remained of him — only to find that the platforms built for human connection had no meaningful place for human grief. Meta's memorialisation system, designed around a single act of foresight most people never take, leaves families without recourse when death arrives unannounced. The law, too, has not yet learned to follow us into the digital spaces where so much of modern life now lives and lingers.
- A widow spent five years sending death certificates and proof of kinship to Meta, receiving nothing in return — not a denial, not an explanation, not a single email.
- Meta's memorialisation system is built entirely around a 'legacy contact' designated before death, meaning the unprepared — the vast majority — are simply locked out with no alternative pathway.
- Australian property law grants executors authority over physical and financial assets, but social media companies face no legal obligation to recognise that authority, creating a gap families fall through.
- The problem extends far beyond Facebook: photos, messages, cryptocurrency, AI accounts, and loyalty programs now accumulate across dozens of platforms, none of which have clear inheritance frameworks.
- When the ABC brought Milisavljević's case to Meta, the company responded by pointing journalists to the same webpage that had failed her for five years.
- Digital estate planning is quietly becoming one of the most consequential forms of life administration — and most people, experts warn, are not doing it.
Five years after her husband died of leukaemia at thirty-four, Marija Milisavljević is still trying to make sense of what she lost — and what she cannot reach. His Facebook account, filled with photos and videos, remains inaccessible to her. She submitted death certificates, proof of kinship, every document Meta requested. No response ever came. "You're kind of at a standstill," she said. "It's really heartbreaking to lose a part of them that is still here."
Facebook introduced account memorialisation in 2009, earlier than most platforms, but built the system around a single requirement: users must designate a "legacy contact" before they die. Without that advance step, grieving families have no meaningful recourse. Meta operates roughly three billion accounts globally, and its process works only for those who planned ahead — a small minority.
Bjørn Nansen, an associate professor at the University of Melbourne, describes digital legacy management as a form of life administration most people neglect. The consequences are real: families lose access to photographs, videos, email threads, cryptocurrency, and other assets carrying sentimental or monetary weight. For Milisavljević, the loss is emotional — but no less significant. Eventually, she stopped trying.
The legal system offers little help. Melbourne wills and estate lawyer Lisa Berte explains that while Australian property law empowers executors to manage a deceased person's assets, social media companies are under no obligation to recognise that authority. "This is a bit of a loophole in the law at the moment," she said. When someone dies without a will and without a legacy contact, no mechanism exists to grant their family control over their accounts.
The problem reaches well beyond Facebook. People now accumulate digital lives across dozens of platforms — iCloud libraries, messaging apps, investment accounts, AI tools holding years of personal work. None have clear inheritance pathways. Australia's eSafety Commissioner has no mandate to intervene unless a deceased person's account is being used to harm others. Otherwise, families navigate the loss alone.
When the ABC contacted Meta about Milisavljević's case, the company declined to comment and directed journalists to its memorialisation request page — the same process that had failed her for five years. Now remarried and moving forward, she has not forgotten. "For a platform that is meant to be designed for human interaction," she said, "it's really not created for real humans."
Five years have passed since Marija Milisavljević's husband died of leukaemia at thirty-four. She describes him as someone who could light up a room, and in the years since his death, she has tried to hold onto what remains of him—including a Facebook account filled with photos and videos. When she attempted to memorialise his profile, to preserve it as a digital memorial, Meta never responded to her applications. She sent death certificates, proof of kinship, everything the company asked for. The emails never came back. "You're kind of at a standstill," she said. "It's really heartbreaking to lose a part of them that is still here."
The problem runs deeper than one family's frustration. Facebook introduced account memorialisation in 2009, ahead of most social platforms, but built the system around a single requirement: users must assign a "legacy contact" before they die. This person verifies the death and takes control of the account afterward. Without that advance designation, grieving families find themselves locked out. Meta, which operates roughly three billion accounts globally, has created a process that works only for the prepared—and offers no meaningful recourse for everyone else.
Bjørn Nansen, an associate professor at the University of Melbourne's school of computing and information systems, calls digital legacy management a form of life administration that most people neglect. "It still remains a pretty marginal thing," he said. The risks of inaction are real. When someone dies without managing their digital assets, their family loses access to photographs, videos, email threads, cryptocurrency holdings, music playlists, and other items that may carry sentimental or monetary value. For Milisavljević, the loss is purely emotional—but no less significant. She has tried multiple times to reclaim her husband's account. Eventually, she stopped trying.
The legal system has not caught up. Lisa Berte, a wills and estate lawyer in Melbourne, explains that Australian property law allows executors to manage a deceased person's assets, but social media companies have not been obligated to recognise that authority. "Our laws haven't kept up with imposing an obligation on these companies to recognise the authority of your executor," Berte said. "This is a bit of a loophole in the law at the moment." When someone dies without a will and without a designated legacy contact, the law has no mechanism to grant their family control over their social media accounts. The platforms operate in a space where regulation has not yet reached.
Berte notes that Facebook is only the beginning of a much larger problem. People now accumulate digital assets across dozens of platforms—iCloud photo libraries, messaging apps with irreplaceable conversations, online investment accounts, loyalty programs, and increasingly, AI accounts containing years of personal and professional work. None of these have clear inheritance pathways. The eSafety Commissioner, Australia's government agency for online safety, does not regulate account memorialisation. A spokesperson said the agency could only assist if a deceased person's account was being used to cause harm to others. Otherwise, families are on their own.
When the ABC contacted Meta about Milisavljević's case, the company declined to comment and instead directed journalists to a webpage for memorialisation requests—the same process that had failed her for five years. Milisavljević, now remarried, has moved forward with her life, but she has not forgotten the experience. She wants Meta to make the process easier for grieving families. "For a platform that is designed or meant to be designed for human interaction, it's really not created for real humans," she said. The gap between what the technology promises and what it actually delivers remains wide, and for families trying to preserve the digital traces of people they have lost, that gap feels like abandonment.
Citas Notables
For a platform that is designed or meant to be designed for human interaction, it's really not created for real humans.— Marija Milisavljević
Our laws haven't kept up with imposing an obligation on these companies to recognise the authority of your executor. This is a bit of a loophole in the law at the moment.— Lisa Berte, wills and estate lawyer
La Conversación del Hearth Otra perspectiva de la historia
Why does Meta require a legacy contact in the first place? Why not let families apply after someone dies?
It's a security measure, in theory. They want to prevent fraud—someone claiming a stranger is dead to take over their account. But the system assumes everyone will plan ahead, which most people don't. Death is sudden. People don't think about their Facebook account when they're grieving.
So Marija sent them a death certificate. That's proof. Why wasn't that enough?
You'd think it would be. But Meta's process seems to have no human review, or at least none that responds. She applied multiple times over five years and never heard back. It's not that they said no—it's that they said nothing.
Is this a Meta problem or a broader tech problem?
Both. But Meta was actually ahead of the curve—they introduced memorialisation in 2009. The real problem is that the law hasn't caught up. Executors can manage your house, your bank account, your car. But they have no legal authority over your Facebook account. The platforms operate in a void.
What happens to the account if no one ever memorialises it?
It just sits there. Inactive. Her husband's photos, his videos, his presence on the platform—frozen in time, but inaccessible to her. She can't delete it, can't preserve it, can't do anything with it.
Does anyone else have this problem?
Almost certainly. Meta has three billion users. Not all of them will have assigned legacy contacts. Every day, people die without that preparation. Their families are locked out of their digital lives.
What would fix this?
Meta could make the process responsive—actually review applications, actually communicate with families. And the law could recognise executors' authority over digital assets the way it does physical ones. Right now, there's no obligation on either side.