The fine line between accountability and harassment

The dogpile disguised as justice

Sometimes, it starts as a misunderstanding — a word or a phrase that didn’t land per your intention, a post too nuanced for the platform, a moment of frustration came out incoherently.

Suddenly, it’s not a conversation or late-night thoughts you share. It’s a whole case. They’re grabbing screenshots, framing narratives and summoning an audience.

Less “let’s talk about this”, more “look what they did to me”. People call it “receipt” culture. Most of the time, it’s about ammunition — not evidence.

People say they want change, but what they actually want is a performance of guilt.

They want you to crumble, to backpedal, to cry.

They want something to hold over your head — not something to heal from.

Where “accountability” goes to die

True accountability is a mutual process about care, not control. It is quiet and complex. It requires listening and holds space for learning without humiliation or revenge.

Online, the bar is different.

If you’re too quiet, you’re “ignoring them”.

If you explain yourself, you’re “deflecting”.

If you set boundaries, you’re “doubling down”.

If you cry, you’re “manipulative”.

If you don’t cry, you’re “cold”.

There is no right move. Winning isn’t the point — submission is.

They want an apology — but not just any apology. They want a scripted confession. A promise of perfection.

They want a public display of shame so they can walk away satisfied.

It’s not about “healing”. It’s about control, putting you back in your place so you don’t disrupt the popular opinions or challenge their perspectives without their consent.

The human cost of constant correction

This kind of culture burns people out — especially those who are already navigating trauma, marginalization or neurodivergence.

The cost is more than burnout; it’s also silence.

People stop sharing their stories.

Not because they don’t have anything valuable to say, but because the message is loud and clear: “Your experience is wrong. Your language is wrong. Your pain makes me uncomfortable — so shut it down.”

So they do like Elsa or Rumi — conceal, don’t feel.

They stop talking about the hard stuff. They water themselves down, to be more palatable. They disappear.

Because being silent feels safer than being torn apart by people who claim to be “on your side” or “in your community”.

They stop writing, stop posting, stop risking the chance of being dragged for saying something the wrong way. Silence becomes self-preservation.

That silence doesn’t only affect the people being targeted; it affects the people watching, too.

I saw it firsthand while speaking to a mom of an autistic girl. She wanted to ask hard questions. She wanted to share her experience, even though she wasn’t sure if the language she had was “correct”.

She didn’t want to offend. She didn’t want to say the wrong thing — especially to someone like me, someone with a platform who talks about the hard parts in the open.

And that’s when it hit me:

If people are afraid to ask me — someone who’s lived it — then something is deeply broken.

People should not feel like they’re walking on eggshells just to speak to someone who’s autistic (or any other identifier). Especially not when they’re coming from a place of honesty and desire to learn.

If we can’t create spaces where people feel safe being imperfect while they grow, then we’re not here for growth.

We’re here to box people in — to make ourselves comfortable with who they are and how they experience life.

That’s not “community” — it’s compliance.

Humans do not fit neatly into a list of checkboxes. Marginalized voices spoke up about this when the bookish community popularized diversity reading challenges.

Making a point to read 10 “diverse” books or learn a new language because of the career opportunities is performative allyship.

The impossible standard of “perfect apologies”

Apologizing is seldom enough.

I’m told ish like, “A real apology would be promising you’ll never do it again.”

So I’ll reply with my boundary: “I don’t make promises I can’t keep. I’m human.”

Which ticks them off even more.

These moments taught me everything I needed to know about the dynamic at play: It’s not about the harm I may have caused, but the power.

It’s about forcing someone into submission for someone else’s discomfort, shaming them for their humanity.

It was never about growth, but about control. To create an example out of someone so they can say, “This is what happens if you color outside the lines.”

To prove a point, to maintain moral high ground, to avoid doing the harder internal work of self-reflection.

Because the loud majority likes to win, and they’ve the social clout to do so.

I don’t owe you my breakdown

What people forget — or ignore — is that humans aren’t linear. Healing isn’t performative. Not everyone processes things publicly, regardless of their online reach.

No one owes their trauma to strangers.

No one owes a breakdown to be believed.

No one owes the internet a flawless apology just because it’s louder than it is kind.

I’ve made peace with the fact that not everyone is looking to heal. Some people are looking to punish.

Some people want justice that looks like blood, not cotton and duct tape.

I’ve learned to differentiate between backlash and discomfort, between valid critique and compulsive control, between being wrong and being inconvenient.

And once I saw the difference, I stopped apologizing for the latter.

And honey never tasted as sweet.