We Love Watching People Fall — Until It’s Someone We Like

Let’s talk about the hypocrisy of cancel culture. Because it’s everywhere. And while I could write a novel, I’m going to try to keep this relatively short — and stick to just this part: the fact that we are addicted to public takedowns… but only until it’s someone we actually like. We love to tweet things like “people deserve grace” and “nobody is perfect,” but we are also the first to scroll through an exposed text thread, watch a breakdown video, or re-share a screenshot with the caption, “Oof. This didn’t age well.”

We like seeing people get held accountable when it makes us feel better about ourselves. Especially when they’re rich, famous, or someone we never liked anyway. But the second someone we admire messes up?We get quiet. Or defensive. Or start saying things like: “Everyone makes mistakes.” “Let’s wait until we know the full story.” “They’re being taken out of context.” Suddenly, we’re on a forgiveness arc.

Let’s be honest: cancel culture isn’t about accountability anymore. It’s about power. And entertainment. We sit front row while someone’s reputation burns, then call it “activism.” We watch someone spiral on camera, and we refresh the page. We dissect someone’s past like we’ve never made the same mistake — just not in front of millions of people. And we justify it. Because they “should’ve known better.” But our compassion seems to only show up when it’s convenient. When It’s Someone We Like, The Rules Change We excuse it. We edit the narrative. We dig up something worse someone else did to make them look better by comparison. We don’t want to believe our favorite influencer, friend, or celebrity could have done something wrong — because if they can fall, then maybe we’re not as safe or perfect as we think.So instead of holding the same standard, we protect our image of them. We protect ourselves. We should hold everyone to the same standard — or not have a standard at all.

Here’s where it gets interesting. Do we actually care about holding people accountable? Or are we just obsessed with the illusion of closeness — parasocial relationships that make us feel like we know someone who, realistically, wouldn’t recognize us in a crowd? Why do we go to bat for celebrities? Why do we defend them like they’re our childhood best friend?

Take Chris Brown for example. This is not an alleged situation. It was a well-documented, criminal act of violence involving Rihanna. There was photographic evidence. He was convicted. He served time. And yet? He’s still on tour. Still topping charts. Still praised. Still platformed. If cancel culture was really about accountability, shouldn’t that have ended his career? But here’s the reality: we pick and choose who gets canceled based on how much we like their art, their looks, their vibe. We pretend to care about justice — until it means losing someone we’re emotionally invested in. And that’s not justice. That’s bias. That’s comfort. That’s hypocrisy.

Cancel culture asks us to be prosecutors, juries, and judges for people we’ve never met. But here’s the hard truth: You don’t need a public platform to destroy someone. You don’t need a viral post to ruin someone’s peace. You don’t need a hashtag to cancel someone in your real life. We do it all the time. With our words. With our silence. With the way we talk about people we claim to care about. And we feel justified — until we’re the ones on the receiving end.

If you’re not willing to hold the people you like accountable, maybe you’re not interested in accountability at all. Just control. Just vibes. Just a good show. True grace isn’t about picking favorites. It’s about choosing truth and compassion — even when it’s uncomfortable. Jesus didn’t cancel people. He called them higher. And that’s what we’re supposed to do.

Still learning. Still convicted. Still trying to speak with mercy.