The intent of the NFL’s social media policies (with the tacit approval of the owners) is clear: Keep the cash cow well fed by controlling the message and ensuring that the league doesn’t get (more) egg on its face.

Truth is, the vast majority of the players I know are more than capable of handling their business — either on social media or through opportunities to write at sites like this one — and we should have every right to express ourselves in an uncensored way. For many of us, social media represents a chance to set the record straight, to push back against agenda-based narratives pushed by traditional media. Threatening to fine us — the NFL’s tried, true and preferred “disciplinary method” — does nothing but foster mistrust and resentment between management and labor.

Instead, why not try collaboration, open dialogue and a real willingness to trust players to recognize how much damage social media can cause their personal brands, their teams, and their league when the requisite degree of care and discretion is not applied?

Maybe then, instead of everyone enduring the media’s collective faux-appall at Marshawn Lynch choosing to exercise his right not to speak, he would be able to express himself without fear of financial reprisal. In the NFL, most players talk — heck, we want to talk. Sometimes, we say too much, or we say something inflammatory or offensive, and for this, we are summarily fined. But now we are fined if we don’t talk, too? Marshawn knows he’s damned if he does and he’s damned if he doesn’t — and I don’t blame him for choosing to go with full-on silent treatment; it’s the lesser of two evils, probably.

To be fair, when I first created my various online profiles, I was constantly checking the likes, retweets, shares and follower counts. I wanted to be liked, I wanted my opinions to be validated, I wanted to be accepted. Back then, I didn’t understand that opening a 24/7 conduit to the fans (and the detractors) meant that I was starting an infinite and immutable conversation — and I certainly had no idea that my “popularity” would end up being far less important than my ability to connect with people in a meaningful way.

Don’t get me wrong, not all players use social media as I do. Nowadays, all we need to do is log in, and we can get anything we want delivered right to our doorsteps. And I do mean anything. Athletes needn’t look very hard. The unsolicited opportunities often present themselves.

For me, social media is way for me share who I am as a person off the field; away from the often violent, sometimes grotesque and always intense cauldron which is life in the NFL. Now, giving real-time access to fans — something I certainly never had as a kid looking up to Barry Sanders, Ricky Williams and Jerry Rice — has become a source of great pride for me, and I take the responsibility seriously. It’s not about inflating my ego; it’s about continuing to develop a two-way engagement that enriches my experience and interactions as much as it hopefully does my followers’.

Not that it’s always a rewarding experience. I consistently encounter four types of social media users in my various feeds:

The Real Fan. These are the people who stick by you no matter what. They’re season ticket holders and jersey buyers and kids. They’re the diehards, and they make social media an amazing tool for athletes. The overwhelming number of my followers fall into this category. The Fair-Weather Fan. These are the people who laud you when you score the game-winning TD, and lambast you when you fumble away the team’s chances. I get it, fans have every right to boo you when you play badly, and social media is merely a digital amplification of those voices. Like the million-dollar contracts, it comes with the territory. The Red Zone Channel Crew. These are the unfortunate products of the age we live in, the gimme-gimme-gimmer’ers who believe that their bet on the game’s outcome or their decision to start a player in fantasy football somehow makes them a principal to the transaction. They are personally invested in the athlete’s success, and they won’t hesitate to let you know how angry they are when those expectations are not met. The Trolls. These are the absolute worst that society has to offer; those who exist only to infect others with their negativity and hate; those whose goal is to draw athletes into saying something stupid; those endlessly grasping at their 0.5 seconds of internet notoriety. As a firm believer in free speech, I try avoid blocking followers unless they say something that is especially despicable or offensive — but these are the social media users who consistently test my resolve.

Ultimately, social media is a way to let people in, but if you’re not careful, there can be serious consequences. Once you tweet it, post it, or upload it, there’s just no putting the horse back in the barn. Players need to think about their futures — about their sons and daughters Googling them 20 years from now. I don’t want to have to try explain something to my daughter someday that simply can’t be explained.

Social media isn’t just about what you broadcast to the world, though. As a portal, the connection runs both ways, and there are predators and opportunists lurking around every corner. I have heard countless stories of professional athletes having to deal with hateful, vulgar, and even racist or threatening comments and replies. And it’s not the players, either — just take a look at the Twitter mentions of guys like Stephen A. Smith or Bomani Jones, and you’ll get a little sense of how much hatred social media can deliver.

I have been lucky enough to avoid most of that, but there was one particular interaction last season that gave me serious pause about social media in general.

It was precipitated by something that happened late in the fourth quarter of our Week 1 matchup against the Seahawks — we were down 12–7, and driving deep into Seattle territory when I took a handoff and got out into space by beating Earl Thomas. Like the pro that he is, though, Thomas didn’t give up on the play and made a tremendous recovery by tomahawking the ball away from me on the 8-yard line. The Seahawks recovered, ran out the clock, and we lost the game.