When fiction turns harm into desirable – and why that matters.

I shouldn’t have to say this – but clearly, it still needs to be said.

Sexual assault is a form of violence that has permanently altered – and in some cases ended – the lives of real people. It is not love. It is not romance. It is not something that should ever be framed as desirable or aspirational.

Stories can explore dark themes. That’s not the issue.

Depicting harm is not the same as endorsing it – but how the harm is framed matters.

Fiction has always examined uncomfortable, disturbing, and even taboo subjects. But there is a clear line between depicting harm and romanticizing it.

When sexual assault is framed as romance – when an abuser is portrayed as desirable, when the victim’s trauma is minimized or turned into a “love story” – it distorts reality in a way that can be harmful. It sends the message, whether intentional or not, that abuse can be equated with intimacy.

And that’s where the problem lies.

You are free to engage with dark or taboo content privately. But when the media normalizes or profits from presenting sexual violence as romantic, it stops being just a personal preference and becomes part of a larger cultural issue.

Creators have influence. With that comes responsibility.

This isn’t about censorship. It’s about accountability in how stories are told – and whose pain is being turned into entertainment.

Common Responses – And Why This Still Matters

“I separate it from reality.”

Some people can. Some people can’t. And even if you can, that doesn’t mean these narratives exist without impact.

Media doesn’t exist in a vacuum – it shapes how we think over time, even subtly. Repeated exposure to certain narratives can normalize ideas, especially for younger or more impressionable audiences.

This isn’t about assuming everyone is incapable of separating fiction from reality. It’s about acknowledging that storytelling influences culture, and culture influences how we understand things like consent and relationships.

“Healthy relationships are boring to read.”

You’re allowed to like intense, messy, or even dark dynamics in fiction. That’s not the issue.

The question is: how are those dynamics being framed?

There’s a difference between exploring toxic or abusive relationships critically – and presenting them as desirable, passionate, or romantic. When sexual violence is framed as love, it blurs an important line.

“Why do you care? It’s just fiction.”

Because fiction doesn’t come from nowhere – and it doesn’t disappear once consumed.

Many stories draw from real experiences, including trauma. And the way those experiences are portrayed can either validate reality or distort it.

Caring about how something is framed isn’t the same as “taking fiction too seriously.” It’s recognizing that stories contribute to how we collectively understand the world.

This isn’t about controlling what people read or write.

It’s about being honest about the impact of how certain dynamics and trauma are portrayed – and asking whether we’re comfortable turning real forms of harm into something framed as romance.

“Dark romance is a safe space for exploring taboos.”

There’s a difference between exploring taboos and romanticizing violence.

Fiction can absolutely be a space to examine power, control, and even uncomfortable dynamics. But sexual violence is not just a “taboo” in the same way as other edgy themes – it’s a real-world human rights violation with lasting consequences.

Calling it a kink or a form of romantic escapism blurs a critical line.

Consensual kink is built on clear frameworks like SSC (Safe, Sane, Consensual) and RACK (Risk-Aware Consensual Kink). Consent isn’t optional – it’s the foundation.

When a story removes consent and still frames the dynamic as desirable, passionate, or romantic, it stops being an exploration of power and becomes a distortion of it.

This isn’t about banning dark themes. It’s about how they’re framed.

There’s a meaningful difference between:

– portraying harm and acknowledging it as harm.

– and portraying harm as something to root for

If power dynamics are part of the appeal, then agency should exist on both sides. Without that, it’s not “dark romance” – it’s violence being repackaged as romance.

And that distinction matters.

“If you don’t like it, don’t read it.”

Sure. People can choose what they engage with.

But that doesn’t mean media exists without impact – or that creators are exempt from accountability.

“Don’t read it” treats storytelling like it happens in isolation. It doesn’t. Stories circulate, gain popularity, influence trends, and shape how certain ideas are normalized over time.

Choosing not to engage doesn’t address how something is being widely framed or received.

This isn’t about controlling individual preferences.

It’s about acknowledging that when harmful dynamics – like sexual violence – are consistently framed as romantic or desirable, it contributes to a broader cultural narrative.

And creators are part of that.

Having an audience comes with influence. And influence comes with responsibility in how stories are told – especially when they involve real-world forms of harm.

Opting out is a personal choice.

But it doesn’t erase the conversation about impact.

And let’s talk about “redeeming” abusers.

A character showing remorse, changing their behavior, or having a tragic backstory does not entitle them to a romantic relationship with the person they harmed.

Growth is one thing. Accountability is another.

When stories turn abuse into a stepping stone for romance – where the victim is expected to forgive, stay, or fall in love – it shifts the focus away from the harm and onto the abuser’s “redemption arc.”

That’s a problem.

It removes the victim’s agency and often reframes their trauma as a narrative tool for intimacy. But trauma is not intimacy. Suffering is not chemistry. Harm is not a love language.

Redemption arcs can exist without romantic reward – especially not with the victim.

Because once a story suggests that abuse can be “fixed” into love, it blurs a dangerous line: that harm can be part of a relationship’s foundation.

And it shouldn’t be.

This isn’t about rejecting complex characters.

It’s about refusing to turn abuse into a pathway to romance.

I understand that some people disagree with my take on this topic.

I’m open to a respectful discussion – but framing harm as romance is worth questioning.

Thank you for taking the time to read my piece.

Resources

If you or someone you know has been affected by the themes discussed in this article, support is available. You don’t have to navigate this alone.

RAINN (National Sexual Assault Hotline – U.S.):

Call 1–800–656-HOPE or visit rainn.org.

Crisis Text Line:

Text HOME to 741741.

Find a Helpline (International Support):

Visit findahelpline.com

If you’re outside the U.S., Find a Helpline can connect you to local resources in your country.

AI has always existed before it became a trend for people to either hate it with all their guts or worship it as the greatest creation ever made.

AI is a tool. Tools can be misused. Do we blame the tool for being misused? No.

It’s about how the person uses that tool. The user takes accountability for how they use it.

People can agree to disagree on how AI should be used, or even on AI itself. But when both extremes lack grounding, the lines become blurred.

I have seen how AI can be misused to the point where it enables crimes such as deepfakes, fraud, and scams.

That is a real issue that has been ignored for far too long by authorities and even some of the people behind these systems.

It’s disgusting that this happens so often, and there should absolutely be rules and laws in place to prevent people from using AI for criminal acts.

This should concern everyone involved – the programmers, the companies, and the people who endorse these technologies.

But I have also seen how AI can be used for good. Unfortunately, there are extremists who attack anything associated with AI instead of focusing on how it is being used.

Creators who make their work completely by hand are now being falsely accused of using AI simply because their work fits someone else’s personal bias of what “AI art” supposedly looks like.

Some students are being unfairly punished because their writing fits another person’s perception of what AI-generated work looks like. While there are people who misuse AI to do their work for them, innocent students should not be caught in the crossfire because of assumptions and bias.

That is wrong on many levels.

There have been people who never used AI at all who were still harassed, cancelled, or attacked over accusations or even opinions related to AI.

This bias surrounding AI has gotten completely out of control.

People can agree to disagree about AI usage, but no one should be afraid to use AI if they are using it responsibly to help people.

Save that energy for the people who misuse AI to harm others or commit crimes.

AI is powerful. Use it wisely. Every action taken with it is still the responsibility of the person behind the screen.

Taking AI away will not magically solve humanity’s problems. There will always be people who misuse tools for their own gratification.

Instead of fighting each other over being “pro-AI” or “anti-AI,” both sides should work together to prevent misuse and hold people accountable for their actions.

Blaming AI itself will never replace human accountability.

I wanna make it clear that I will continue to write. I’m just airing out my feelings in this piece.

I just realized that everything I have posted rarely gets any views or much engagement. I’ll admit that it hurts a little that when I put my heart out there, not everyone stops to take a look at my work.

I don’t really expect anyone to drop everything they have and stop whatever they’re doing to look at what I’ve written.

I’m not really asking for that.

I came on here because I have a voice that needs to come out and be shared. There are topics I wanted to share and have yet to share because those topics are important and I’m so sick and tired of constantly seeing so much wrong and not enough people talking about it and working together for a solution.

I let my voice out through my writing and I share it on Medium. I might try other sites to share my writing through more research and maybe even gain profit from my works.

I have other projects I’m currently writing. I guess it kinda scares me knowing that my work is not exactly considered “relevant.” It makes me believe that a lot of works that are loud or toxic get more engagement and creators receive more money that way. I don’t wanna go down that path.

I wanna stay true to myself rather than losing myself just to be nothing but a source of entertainment with empty words.

I do understand there are works out there that do share positive works and share writing that is very insightful or offers a new perspective on a social issue, a well-known topic, etc that get a lot of great engagement. That’s awesome. I’m not arguing against anything like that. I’m not even arguing at all to be honest with you.

This kinda sounds like a journal entry and I know it’s not very grand compared to the writing pieces I’ve written here. But, I just simply want to put my work and my voice out there. I’ve kept it in for so long to the point that silence feels like a cage and I’m just trying to break free from it.

Even if this shows as just another echo chamber buried amongst thousands of others, maybe my echo – even quiet – will show that I’m still here.

An honest letter to myself and the memories of objects I carried.

I should apologize for the objects I misused and ignored. They carry forms of regret and love that are hard to put into words. I hope they can forgive me.

I’m sorry to my scissors. I have been taught to use them to cut paper, but instead, I used them to cut myself in a fit of rage toward myself. There was no blood or deep cuts. Maybe I was too physically weak for that. I’m happy now that I don’t have the scars to remind me. But even so, that moment ended in my fearing for the self-inflicted abuse and fearing sharp objects when I carry intrusive thoughts that have haunted me.

I’m sorry to the piled stuffed animals and toys that sat in my bucket of toys like a mountain, staring at me waiting for me to play with them. My parents and my other family members bought me so many toys and dolls that I begged them to buy but never played with. I just wanted something there with me so I wouldn’t feel lonely – so I know there is something there for me, even if I don’t interact with it. I hope you know that you still have a place in my heart even if you’re gone. I love you.

I’m sorry to the cute olive green skirt I never wore but begged my parents to buy. I’m ashamed but I shouldn’t be. It wasn’t only cute but I wasted an opportunity to wear it. I’m too big for it now. I hope you can forgive me. Even when I can’t find you now or if you’ve been thrown out already. I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive my carelessness and underappreciation.

I’m sorry to the family photos that I have never been able to transfer onto my current phone. Lost in the abyss that carries my most treasured memories. I am heartbroken. The baby picture of my niece smiling at me for the first time is gone. How do I live with that memory being erased? I miss that photo. Please forgive me for losing something so dear to me. Just know that image of my baby niece smiling at me showing her gums, rosy cheeks, and those big sparkling eyes are imprinted in my memory. How could it not? We even have the same-shaped noses. I did not forget that picture. My heart reminds me of my precious moments.

I’m sorry to my favorite floral dresses I’ve worn when I was little. I should’ve kept you as treasures to pass down to my loved ones. My niece could really use it right now. She would’ve loved you with all her heart and hopefully taken better care of all of you than I have.

I’m sorry to the best and most stylish outfit I created for myself when I was little. I had my butterfly fairy wings over my cute pink jean jacket and my favorite pink and rainbow tulle dress. I had on white stockings and even dared myself to wear my princess heels that matched my princess tiara and wand. I don’t know what happened to you. I don’t know if you were thrown out or donated away. I’m so sorry for not taking better care of you. You were my one and only outfit I adored. My younger self misses you.

I’m sorry to the first shoes I’ve worn. I should’ve kept you in my heart and passed them down to my future daughter. I do deeply regret forgetting you and not being able to picture what you looked like. Please know that you mattered to me, even as a baby.

My body is not an object. It is my home. I am sorry to my body – my sanctuary. When I was younger, my body went through hell. I have been healing so constantly in and out of hospitals and my bed. It wasn’t pretty and sometimes I was bullied for the way my body looked.

I remember wearing my favorite pink dress and one of the boys commented that I “looked pregnant.” I remember taking the BMI tests in front of my teachers and peers. I was embarrassed and upset that I was labeled as overweight and angry at myself for believing there was something wrong with me. The medications I took bloated me and for years people thought I’ve been eating more. In 6th grade, I remember my old elementary school classmate asking what I was eating because I was as skinny as a skeleton and grew bigger. I should’ve stood up for myself but instead I smiled, agreed, and told her my favorite foods to eat.

I began starving myself as punishment for any wrong I did and to lose weight. I put my body in serious danger and almost passed out in school. I put my family through constant worry and upset seeing me this way. They want me to be healthy and accept myself. It took a long journey in my young adult years to do so.

I remember I had severe eczema since I was a baby. I had it on my chubby cheeks. My nails had to be trimmed. I had to wear baby socks and mittens to stop myself from scratching my eczema – it was extremely hard even throughout my teenage and young adult years. Words can’t describe how difficult it was.

In elementary school all the way to middle school, I remember I was bullied by my peers. When eczema was seen on my lips, hands, arms, legs, or feet, I received harsh and unforgiving comments on it from both my peers and myself. I didn’t feel confident in my body. I was ashamed. I was constantly insecure and hid it through more and more clothing layers. Unfortunately… that didn’t stop my peers.

But I am proud to say now, I’m so happy with my major healing process. I love the skin I’m in. I love my body. I love my home.

My body deserves an apology for the constant ridicule, non-consensual touches, and nasty sexual remarks throughout my childhood. I don’t expect others to apologize to me but I will step forward and apologize to myself for harming my body and threatening to take my life away, not realizing how precious it is. I will never take my life for granted. I apologize to myself.

I have many more to apologize to. I hope you can forgive me. And most importantly, I will be changing how I treat myself from now on. It’s time to love myself – long overdue but I’m happy to do it now.

From the love of my life,

Me

Resources

Crisis Text Line:

Text HOME to 741741 (US/Canada) or 85285 (UK) for free, 24/7 crisis support.

988 Suicide & Crisis Lifeline:

Call or text 988 (US/Canada) to reach a trained crisis counselor at any time you need.

National Eating Disorder Association (NEDA):

Please go to the NEDA website to reach out for screening tools and treatment resources.

National Alliance on Mental Illness (NAMI):

Please reach out to NAMI for mental health support and education.

Find a Helpline (International Support):

Visit findahelpine.com

If you’re outside the US, Find a Helpline can connect you to local resources in your country.

Wanderer’s Tavern

Dear Me & My Memories: An Apology To All I Carried was originally published in Wanderer’s Tavern on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Do you remember the time we snuck into our neighbor’s backyard to gather a basket of peaches? I know you do. And if you don’t, then let me remind you.

You made binoculars. I made the basket. Together, we drew a map connecting your backyard to theirs like it was a grand expedition. Your plan was… impressive, but terrible.

I laughed so hard I snorted milk out of my nose.

You even suggested I climb onto your mother’s rooftop to scout the backyard and record the timing of everything. I don’t know why I agreed – but I did.

So there I was, climbing up in a skirt, holding onto the chimney just to keep my balance.

Oh dear…

All for peaches.

And of course, that was exactly when your mother and uncle spotted me.

They started shouting for me to come down. Suddenly, the entire neighborhood felt like it was watching.

Across the yard, you were sitting in a tree, laughing.

I waved for you to hurry, but you were too busy laughing to help.

And somehow… I was laughing too.

After you grabbed the peaches and jumped the fence, I tried to climb down on my own. The wind picked up. I slipped.

I remember the sky, the rush of air, and the heat in my face – red as the tomatoes we once stole.

And everyone saw.

I still think about that moment sometimes. Not because it was embarrassing… but because you were there, laughing like it meant nothing in the world.

What I’ll never forget is what you did after.

You hid the peaches and then caused absolute chaos in the neighbor’s yard – screaming, dancing, distracting everyone like you were trying to rewrite the entire scene.

People laughed about it for days. I think some still do.

A bird even landed on you – twice – and you screamed at it like it was personally responsible for everything.

I couldn’t stop laughing.

We got grounded, of course. Two months… maybe three. I can’t remember. My parents were too busy yelling to make it clear.

We were young. Stupid.

But safe.

Afterward, you brought the peaches into our treehouse. You told me you washed them. I believed you.

They were sweet – soft inside, slightly crisp outside. Like sunlight you could taste.

I told you we should keep the seeds.

“You’ll get us caught,” I said.

You ignored me, as always.

But I kept them anyway.

Someday, I said, we’ll grow our own trees. No stealing needed.

You just smiled and said, “They were going to waste anyway. We’re helping them.”

You always said things like that.

And I always stayed.

I used to think I stayed because I had to keep you out of trouble.

Now I think I stayed because I didn’t want to leave.

Those summers felt endless.

Spring, winter, fall – we always found each other again:

blackberry pies from your grandmother,

raspberries in glass jars from my mother,

pinecones turned into ridiculous competitions,

and pumpkins that somehow always turned into pie.

I don’t know how you did it.

But I remember every bite.

Do you remember our fruit-filled memories?

Do you still remember me?

Our Blossomed Red Cherries

On a beautiful spring morning, my parents left for a business trip out of state. Aunt April and Aunt May came to stay with me.

Whenever they visited, my whole world felt brighter. They always brought a huge glass jar of sweet red cherries, and together we would bake Grammy’s cherry pie.

Sweet, tart… familiar.

The crust was always my favorite part.

I never liked fruit mixed into my desserts – but that pie was an exception.

Do you remember when I invited you over to teach you how to make it?

It was March 21st – the same day we planted our first fruit tree.

You arrived while I prepared the kitchen. Everything was already set out: bowls, flour, cherries, recipes.

And then you walked in – dancing like you always did, completely unbothered, lip-syncing to whatever song was stuck in your head.

You always made me laugh.

We washed our hands first. That was the rule.

I tried to teach you the crust, but you somehow ended up teaching me instead. I still don’t know how you knew more about it than I did.

Then it was my turn to teach you the cherry filling – but you already knew that too.

I narrowed my eyes at you.

“You’re pulling my leg,” I said. “How do you know all of this?”

You just smiled.

“Your Aunt May and Aunt April taught me.”

I grabbed a towel and hit your arm.

“You cheater.”

You just laughed.

Then you took my hand and led me outside, covering my eyes the whole way.

When you finally let go, the sunlight hit me so hard I had to blink a few times to see.

And there it was – my garden, prepared for planting.

Rich soil. Freshly turned earth.

You were already standing there, smiling at me like it was the easiest thing in the world.

“How did you…” I started.

“I remembered,” you said. “You told me about the seeds. About wanting something we grew ourselves. Your aunts helped me set this up.”

I didn’t know what to say.

So I just held your hand.

“Then let’s start,” I said.

I ran inside to get the seeds I had saved. When I came back, you were holding seeds too.

You had kept them as well.

I thought I had been the only one remembering.

Maybe I never was.

We planted everything together.

You were better at it than you should’ve been, like the soil already knew you.

And as we worked, I realized something:

You didn’t see this as anything special.

But I did.

To me, it wasn’t just a garden.

It was a beginning.

A very gentle one.

A very real one.

My dear… this moment still means everything to me.

Even now, as I write this.

Do you remember our blossomed red cherries?

The Pumpkin Patch

Everything always falls into place.

That day, the leaves were gold, orange, red, and brown – falling everywhere. We used to stomp on them just to hear them crack beneath our feet.

You made a bet that you could find better pinecones than me. I told you not to bother – you’d only bring back “crusty-looking ones” again.

You never listened.

I ran to the forest behind my parents’ backyard. That was where I always found the best pinecones.

There was a hill there – steep enough to slide down into the leaves if you ran fast enough.

I saw you at the top.

A hummingbird passed by you first… then an owl tilted its head… then a deer startled you from behind.

You stepped back –

And fell.

The sound when you hit the tree stayed in the air too long.

I ran.

I called your name until my voice broke.

No answer.

I shook you.

Nothing.

The cold came fast. Your breath was barely there. Mine turned into smoke.

I couldn’t carry you, so I dragged you uphill, holding your arms, step by step.

I don’t remember how long it took.

Only that I didn’t stop.

Your mother and mine came running, screaming your name into the trees.

And then everything became noise.

Sirens. Red lights. Breath. Leaves. Silence.

The forest felt like it was watching.

I couldn’t sleep that night.

And I still heard everything.

The owl. The crows. The silence between breaths.

The next morning, the phone rang.

There were only two possibilities.

You were gone.

Or you weren’t.

My mother answered.

I hid on the stairs.

I only heard fragments –

“coma…”

“he’ll wake up…”

“…he won’t remember…”

That was the first time silence felt like something breaking.

I didn’t go to the pumpkin patch that day.

Not for a long time.

September 21st – you woke up.

I was the first person you saw.

You called me an angel before falling back asleep.

It’s been five years since then.

I kept the fruit tree alive.

It’s growing well. I still think you’ll see it again.

When you finally woke fully, I ran to you.

But you looked at me like you didn’t know me.

Then you looked away.

That hurt more than anything else.

That night, I went back to the pumpkin patch alone.

The leaves still crunched the same way.

But everything felt distant.

The owl was still there.

The crows moved like they remembered something I didn’t.

A woman met me there.

She used to own the pumpkin patch.

She said she still remembered us – how we tried to steal pumpkins in daylight, how I fell into the mud trying to tiptoe, and how your laughter always gave us away.

I hadn’t thought about that in years.

She told me I could take a pumpkin – but only if I made your pumpkin pie.

So I tried.

And failed.

Flour on my hands. Filling on my clothes. Nothing came out right.

Then you appeared.

You didn’t smile.

But you moved through the kitchen like your hands remembered something your mind didn’t.

I let you take over.

You worked in silence, guiding without realizing you were guiding.

When you tasted it, you said nothing.

Just washed your hands.

And started again.

We ate at the pumpkin patch with her.

Then she gave us seven seeds.

And I thought – maybe that was enough.

On the walk home, I held your hand.

“I promise,” I said, “we’ll grow everything again. The trees, the garden, all of it. I’m here.”

You didn’t answer.

Then you looked at me –

and smiled.

Just once.

And nodded.

That was enough.

We walked through the leaves together.

Will you ever remember our fruitful memories?

The Blackberry Tree

Throughout the toughest of weathers, this blackberry tree your grandmother had in her garden would keep growing bigger and bigger. The leaves never changed color nor fell along with the berries. No matter how cold or harsh the snowstorms were, the blackberries may freeze, but they never fell into the icy snow. No matter how hard the rain would crash against this tree, it never fell apart like the others. No matter how the raging fiery temperature burned the grass, the trunk was always warm – never cold like dry ice, never burning hot like boiling oil. This was the toughest tree I had ever seen.

I remember when we made our parents agree to build a swing on this blackberry tree. I whined and pulled my mother’s arms until she gave in, while you pleaded with your mother and uncle until they agreed as well. But there was one condition – we had to ask your grandmother.

We were nervous. We knew she might say no. The blackberry tree was her prized possession. She and her husband planted it when they were children, both just ten years old.

After he passed away, she would still go outside in any weather just to sit by that tree, eating the same treats they used to share. Your uncle would bring her inside when the cold or heat became too much. Your mother would keep her occupied with knitting, baking, or painting – anything to keep her safe.

She was known to be quiet now. But I once overheard your mother say she used to be talkative, her smile bright as the sun. Her husband always said her smile warmed him more than anything. I can see where you got your sunshine smile from.

We stood in front of her door that day, heads lowered as we knocked. You were the first to speak.

“Good afternoon, Grammy,” your voice shook, but your chin stayed up. “Can we build a swing on your blackberry tree?”

I added quickly, “We understand if you say no. It’s very important to you.”

She didn’t answer right away. She just kept knitting.

Then, after a long pause, she folded her work neatly and looked at us.

“Don’t you worry,” she said softly. “That swing will be built for you.”

I couldn’t stop myself from smiling. You couldn’t either – your dimples showed.

I ran home holding your hand to tell my parents the news.

But when we got inside, I told you to wait downstairs while I went upstairs to look for them. As I reached their door, I stopped.

I heard crying.

“I don’t want to believe what I’m hearing,” my mother sobbed. “I didn’t know Mrs. Johnson had cancer… how did we not notice?”

I stepped back.

We had just spoken to her.

I turned and bumped into you. Your face was already wet with tears. Without a word, you ran out.

I followed you outside.

That’s when I saw the red blinking lights painting our neighborhood.

Paramedics were carrying Mrs. Johnson out of her house. Your uncle followed the stretcher, while your mother stood frozen behind you, wiping her face again and again, never able to stop crying properly.

The ambulance doors closed. The lights disappeared down the road.

Everything felt quieter after that.

We all ended up inside your house.

Our mothers talked in the kitchen in low, broken voices. We stayed in the living room, waiting for something we didn’t want to hear.

You didn’t speak. Your brightness had dimmed completely.

I didn’t want to remind you of her. But even after that day… I think part of you still believed she was there.

Can I speak my memories to you, Mrs. Johnson?

I remember that day like a nightmare.

Winter was colder than it should’ve been, even inside the church. It felt like a cold that stayed inside your bones.

Music played softly in the background – your favorite orchestra. But even the sound couldn’t warm anything.

Why did it have to be this way, Mrs. Johnson?

You were everything to us.

Maybe this world was too heavy for you to stay in. But it still needed your light.

I don’t know how to forgive this feeling. I don’t know how to forgive what took you away.

I only wanted to hug you one more time.

The casket was open.

You looked like you were sleeping.

People kept saying you looked peaceful – but I kept waiting for you to wake up.

I leaned in close and whispered,

“Please… wake up. I miss you. We all do. I’ll clean my room. I’ll do everything right. I’ll be strong. Just like you taught me.”

My mother pulled me back gently, but I held on for a moment longer than I should have.

You felt cold.

That was the only thing I could understand.

When I look around the room, I don’t understand how people can notice the beauty of anything here – the angel statues, the painted skies, the idea of heaven on the walls.

All I can think is:

Where are you?

When are you coming back?

“I’m not coming back until you come home to me.”

I didn’t even know I said it out loud.

Ten years later…

It took me ten years to stand in front of you again.

A silver monument stood where you were laid to rest, shaped with a golden carving of a blackberry tree.

You looked like you were resting in something too quiet to be real.

“I brought him with me,” I whispered. “He needs to know. He thought you were still here.”

My voice broke.

“I’m sorry. Please forgive me.”

I turned around.

And when I did…

I wasn’t looking at Mrs. Johnson anymore.

I was looking at you.

Do you want to take the chance to remember our fruitful memories – no matter how painful it is?

Fruitless Joy

Every day, every month, every year, we stood on this land and continued taking care of our fruit tree we planted when we were kids. We practically lived there. We made a promise to live together.

You probably don’t remember everything I remember. But there was something about you that never changed.

Your smile. Your laughter. Those dimples. That mischievous flare. Your charming words. Even though it’s a bit more mellow now, there’s still a light in you that shines through.

But my heart flutters differently now. Before, I thought it was just butterflies – maybe I was coming down with something. I didn’t understand it until I saw you in a different light.

No matter how much time passed, I’ve been with you. I can’t seem to leave you. Don’t get me wrong – you’re capable of caring for yourself. But even then, it always feels like we’re moving through life together. You care for me as I care for you.

You don’t remember my past. But I think our love as kids is still with you. You are still you. You’ve gained your memories little by little. It takes time – just like it takes time for our tree to grow.

The garden we’ve made has grown and blossomed.

The blackberry tree still stands tall. I built the swing Mrs. Johnson promised. I hope she’s proud of us.

The pumpkin patch lady helped us grow our own patch together. All we have to do now is protect it from the rascals who might try to steal from it.

Our cherries finally blossomed anew – red cherries, black cherries. All of them are as sweet as they could be. Maybe Aunt April and Aunt May will visit again and watch us make their pies together.

The peaches were the first to grow. You were so happy, you jumped with joy even now. You took the first bite and beamed. You even said you remembered the time we used to steal them.

But then you said something I don’t think I’ll ever forget – not because it made sense, but because it didn’t.

“I stole them to impress you. Maybe I thought you liked bad boys back then. But know this… when I saw you eat a peach and smile, you brightened my world in ways I can’t describe. Being with you was never a challenge. It was a repeated victory I never lost.”

Now, hey…

I didn’t find that impressive. It worried me.

But I still laughed. I still smiled – because it brought me back to our tree house days.

Our kids play there now.

The tree we grew wasn’t just a fruit tree. It wasn’t just a tree either.

It was ours.

Our fruitless tree.

The fruits we bear were already growing with us.

It was hard to understand at first.

But I think I understand now.

I should hope so… at my age.

Never forget my love for you.

I love you, my dearest.

But I want to write this letter to myself, because I deserve an apology. I need to apologize to myself for how I acted towards myself. I didn’t deserve the misplaced shame, the guilt, the disappointment, the anger, the depression, the disgust, and the self-abusive acts/judgments I inflicted on myself. I never deserved that. And I’m saddened and dare I say ashamed to say it took me this long to write this.

I’m so sorry.

That was hard to say.

Not because I don’t deserve it.

But because I do deserve it and I’ve always been either too afraid or too angry at myself to do so.

I am letting go of this heavy weight in my chest. I want to feel lighter.

No more walls. It’s just me you’re looking at from now on.

The best version of me is the real me. It took me too long to recognize it but I finally came to that realization.

For far too long I have been chasing after a completely imaginary person of who I wanted to become, but I haven’t even accepted myself for who I am.

All the flaws, the desperate need for praise, and the guilt for gaining praise while the other didn’t get it. Blaming myself for situations I never understood as a child. Blaming myself for being bullied by my peers. Blaming myself for hurting myself and attempting to take my life away during my teen years and young adult years.

I am so sorry.

I am deeply sorry.

I love you.

I haven’t shown it enough and I’m still learning to love you but I won’t stop until I experience the unconditional love I know I deserve and am capable of giving myself.

Never forget, every day is another chance to make things right. Take this chance today, right now. Tomorrow isn’t promised. But today is a present that shouldn’t be taken for granted.

Your one and only,

Me

There was a girl named Ebony

She shines like gold with eyes of ivory

She walked around with so much on her mind

It made her blind

Everyone can notice her beauty

But she has yet to discover her own

“Dear Ebony,”

An angel cried

“Why don’t you look in the mirror?”

With a sigh, she looked

She was mesmerized

How shocking to think the mirror could ever reflect the beauty she never knew she had

Dear Ebony finds herself on a journey of self-discovery

For so long she searched for love, but never got it

She believed there was no love

If there was, then she couldn’t reach it

An angel asked her,

“Dear Ebony, do you love yourself?”

Ebony took the time to realize

She had love within

Dear Ebony finds herself on a journey of self-love

For so long her mind was filled with fears from the past that have painted her future

She believed she was stuck

Every step forward was two steps back

Or she was very still, afraid to move

Afraid to make a mistake and shying away from imperfection

She dreamed of an angel

This angel was another mentor

“You have to live in the now.”

She was shown images of her ancestors and the beauty of nature

The light through the green leaves left dear Ebony in awe

She took steps forward in letting go of what no longer serves her

She took another step forward with the knowledge she carried from the past and onto the present

She looked in the mirror once again to recognize her gift of being in the now

She sees herself in a better light than before

A beautiful unconditional love finally bloomed

Dear Ebony finds herself on another journey

Dear Ebony, we are here with you with love and respect

Dear Ebony, may you find your inner peace

You are loved

You are safe

You are protected

Dear Ebony,

With much love.

How this affects everyone – and why it should push us into action.

I am a writer. I am also an avid reader. And through both roles, I have come across disturbing patterns – ones that quietly reinforce rape culture while often going unrecognized or unchallenged.

Rape culture does not exist in isolation. It is sustained through what we normalize, what we excuse, and what we consume without question. It shows up in stories that blur the lines of consent, in narratives that frame coercion as romance, and in audiences who defend harmful dynamics as “just fiction.”

As a society, we have a responsibility – not only for what we create, but for what we accept. Without that awareness, we can contribute to harm without ever realizing it. And that should concern all of us.

But first, let’s talk about what rape culture is to understand this better.

What Is Rape Culture?

Rape culture is an environment where sexual violence is normalized, excused, or trivialized through societal attitudes, media, and everyday behavior.

It shows up in victim-blaming questions like “What were they wearing?” or “Why didn’t they leave?” It lives in rape myths that downplay harm or shift responsibility away from perpetrators. It appears in the sexual objectification of people and in narratives that blur or ignore clear consent, framing coercion as persistence or even romance.

These patterns are not isolated – they are reinforced over time through what we watch, what we read, what we laugh at, and what we choose not to challenge.

And it affects everyone. Women, men, and children are all impacted – whether as victims, as people whose experiences are dismissed, or as individuals shaped by harmful ideas about consent, power, and relationships.

This can happen anywhere and everywhere – which is what makes it so unsettling. It isn’t always obvious, and it doesn’t always look extreme. Often, it hides in everyday conversations, in what we laugh at, in the stories we consume, and in the assumptions we don’t question.

What’s even more concerning is how easy it is to participate in that harm without realizing it. When harmful ideas are normalized for long enough, they stop feeling harmful at all – and that’s how they continue to spread.

How Do People Inadvertently Contribute To Rape Culture?

Unfortunately, we can contribute to rape culture in ways we may not even realize.

Victim Blaming

Victim blaming is the subconscious need to find a “reason” for the assault that places the burden on the victim/survivor’s choices rather than the perpetrator’s actions.

Attention shifts toward scrutinizing the victim/survivor’s clothing, sobriety, or behavior. This often comes from the belief that they are responsible for their assaults. This shifts responsibility away from the perpetrator and reframes the victim/survivor’s actions as careless or preventable.

Questions often asked are:

• “What were you wearing?”
• “Did you wear a lot of makeup?”
• “Were you drinking?”
• “How much did you drink?”
• “Why did you go home with them?”
• “Why did you go to their apartment?”
• “Why were you out alone at night?”
• “Why didn’t you fight back?”
• “Did you scream?”
• “Did you clearly say no?”
• “Why didn’t you report this sooner?”
• “Why didn’t you leave the relationship sooner?”
• “Were you sending mixed signals?”

Sometimes derogatory questions and statements such as “Did you like it?” or “If you enjoyed it, then it’s not rape” would be aimed towards the victim/survivor.

This brings attention to the victim/survivor’s actions. These questions stem from a desire to feel safe with the belief that violence only happens to those who make “bad” choices.

It continues through normalizing coercion.

Normalizing Coercion

Normalizing coercion is where we treat a partner’s refusal to accept “no” as a sign of dedication rather than crossing a boundary.

Oftentimes, someone is manipulated or pressured into sexual activity that is treated as a routine, acceptable, or even framed as a “passionate” part of dating and relationships.

Coercion is known to be more psychological than physical.

There are common forms of coercion:

Emotional Manipulation: This uses guilt or shame. Statements such as, “If you loved me, you would” or “I’m not happy because you won’t do this” drive the victim/survivor to be blamed or to regret their response to appease the person coercing them.

Persistent Pressure: This is often relied on to “wear down” the victim/survivor. Repeatedly asking for sex after being told “no” until the person gives in simply to end the pressure.

Conditional Threats: Threats can occur, such as spreading rumors, cheating, or ending the relationship if the victim/survivor doesn’t comply.

Obligation Myths: This is where the belief that intimacy is “owed” because of a previous date, a gift, financial reasons, or a long-term relationship like marriage.

Coercion is normalized through:

Media’s romanticization of “the chase” where one relentlessly pursues someone who says “no” as a sign of true passion instead of crossing a boundary.

Gendered expectations suggest that men are to be sexually aggressive “hunters” and women are often referred to as the passive “gatekeepers” which normalizes the idea that persistence can eventually override another person’s boundaries.

Or trivializing intent which involves dismissing coercive acts as a “flirting gone wrong” or “misunderstandings” rather than acknowledging that consent wasn’t given.

Sometimes the role of intoxication comes into play such as alcohol or drugs to “loosen up” the victim/survivor. This form of coercion aims to bypass the person’s sober boundaries. Ultimately, this shifts responsibility away from the perpetrator, who used intoxication as a tactic, and onto the victim/survivor who was impaired.

This can lead to people dismissing concerns regarding sexual harassment, coercion, or assault.

Dismissing Concerns

We contribute when we dismiss concerns, labeling those who point out harmful dynamics as “too sensitive” or “killing the mood.” Phrases such as “it wasn’t that bad” are often used to downplay the situation.

This creates a “chilling effect” that protects the perpetrator and silences the victim/survivors.

This is what happens as a result:

1. For The Victim/Survivor

Secondary Victimization: The dismissal can often feel as traumatic as the original event – signaling that their reality isn’t valid and their safety doesn’t matter.

Internalized Shame: There are instances where survivors start to doubt their own memory (a result of gaslighting) or blame themselves for “overreacting,” which leads to long-term psychological stress.

Silence: When a survivor sees others being ignored or degraded, they are less likely to report their own experiences in fear that they will face the same cold or mocking treatment.

2. For The Perpetrator

Reinforcement: If there are little to no consequences, the behavior is often brushed off resulting in the perpetrator learning that they can get away with continuing or escalating their behavior without risks.

Validation: If acts are dismissed, then the act becomes a “green light” which confirms the belief that their actions were acceptable or “normal.”

3. For The Community

Toxic Culture: Dismissal can signal to everyone that the environment is unsafe and that leadership avoids conflict (or protects certain individuals) over the well-being of the people who are greatly affected by this.

Loss Of Trust: Trust in institutions – schools, HR departments, the police, and other institutions that are required to have authority to protect the people – erodes making it harder for these organizations to effectively function and maintain a healthy environment.

Erosion Of Standards: Let’s be honest, over time the bar for what is considered acceptable drops tremendously. The crossing of minor-boundaries becomes the new norm, paving the way for more severe violence.

4. Institutional Betrayal

Unfortunately, this occurs more often than not. The very institution the victim/survivor relies on for protection (such as a workplace, university, or church) fails not only to respond but also fails to act as the protector. Instead, institutions can cover up the incident.

This betrayal is one of the mechanisms that allows rape culture to persist.

Nonetheless, we most commonly contribute by staying silent when the harm is obvious.

Staying Silent When Harm Is Obvious

It’s always the small moments that go unrecognized.

When we laugh and joke about harm that demeans consent, we fail to check in and see the coercive dynamic unfolding in our social circles. Or sometimes, we ignore whether that may be in fear of judgment or misunderstandings or we subconsciously downplay it.

Breaking this down can help us understand better:

Providing Social Permission: When no one speaks up, the perpetrator assumes their behavior is “okay” and they continue. Silence can act as a nod of approval signaling that this behavior is socially acceptable.

Isolating The Victim: When obvious harm goes unacknowledged, the person who is harmed can feel gaslit. They see everyone acting “normal” about this, making them doubt their own instincts. This makes the world feel like a place where they have to endure harm.

Shifting The “Burden Of Bravery”: By staying silent to avoid “judgment” or “misunderstandings,” the responsibility to speak up falls entirely on the person who is harmed. If they are already in a coercive dynamic, then they are the people least likely to safely speak up.

Normalizing The Bystander Effect: The more people ignore or defend harmful behavior, the more likely entire social circles are to normalize it. This creates a culture where avoiding awkwardness or disturbance becomes more important than ensuring safety.

Silence effectively “outsources the cost” by saving yourself the social discomfort while another person absorbs the personal harm.

These small moments of inaction create a collective shield for harmful behavior.

Our harmful behavior can also stem from significant societal factors that still persist today – particularly internalized misogyny.

Internalized Misogyny

Internalized misogyny is one of the social mechanisms that can reinforce rape culture.

This is the ultimate fuel for:

Acceptance Of Rape Myths: Referring to our past discussion, studies show a strong correlation between internalized misogyny and the acceptance of rape myths. This includes the belief that the victim/survivor was “asking for it” or that women often make false accusations.

Victim Blaming: As discussed earlier, the blame shifts to the victim/survivor. Internalized misogyny leads people to judge the woman’s clothing, behavior, or character. Accountability shifts away from the perpetrator and is left solely on the woman to handle. This acts as a “social shield” for harmful actions.

Distrust Of Other Women: When internalizing “catty” or “drama” stereotypes, it leads to an indisputable distrust of other women. This can make people less likely to believe in victims/survivors when they share their experiences – directly contributing to the dismissal of concerns.

Internalized Stigma: Survivors who have a high level of internalized misogyny will most likely blame themselves, often viewing the assault as their own failure rather than a crime. This prevents them from reporting the violence or seeking help/support.

Validating Male Aggression: By internalizing traditional gender roles, people will view male sexual persistence or aggression as “natural” or “masculine” which in turn effectively normalizes coercion.

Silences Men Too: There is a harmful idea that men “always want it” or “can’t be victims” also silences them in fear that they are not viewed as masculine or are subject to unsettling scrutiny. This reinforces the “Gender Expectations” mentioned earlier – when we treat male aggression as natural, we simultaneously decide that male vulnerability is impossible.

These internalized beliefs constantly manifest in small and unrecognizable ways.

For example, distancing oneself from other women through stereotypes such as ‘other girls are too dramatic’ can unintentionally reinforce broader cultural distrust toward women and their experiences.

There is still more to learn about what internalized misogyny does to us.

The scary part is that some of us do not recognize internalized misogyny until it is already deeply ingrained.

These behaviors do not exist in isolation. The same patterns that shape how we respond to consent, coercion, and violence in real life are often reflected – and sometimes amplified – in the media we consume.

Fiction is powerful because stories influence the way we emotionally interpret human behavior. Repeated narratives about romance, persistence, dominance, and desire can subtly shape what audiences come to view as acceptable, attractive, or even normal.

This is where rape culture often becomes harder to recognize.

How This Shows Up In Fiction & Fandom Spaces

As consumers of media, we often see these real-world behaviors mirrored and magnified in the stories we love.

In fiction, rape culture frequently hides behind the mask of “intensity.”

We see this in romanticized coercion where the male or female lead uses intimidation, stalking, or physical force to “win over” a partner.

These stories rely on “persistence = love” tropes teaching audiences that boundaries are merely obstacles to be overcome by a determined suitor.

Let’s break it down:

Tropes Romanticizing Refusal

In fiction, the line between “swoon-worthy” and “criminal” is often disturbingly blurred by the “persistence = love” trope.

This narrative teaches that “no” is a challenge and that true love is wearing someone down into acceptance, “yes.”

The “Alpha” Archetype

This character has always been framed as “protective” or “intense,” but their behavior heavily relies on stripping away their partner’s agency and autonomy.

This involves making decisions for their partner, ignoring their explicit boundaries, and using physical or social dominance to force proximity.

The “Stalker Hero” Archetype

This character carries intrusive thoughts that escalate into alarming acts.

The character would follow their partner, monitor their whereabouts, or show up uninvited.

This is framed as “devotion.”

In these narratives, the violation of privacy is rebranded as a sign that the hero is the only one who truly “understands” or “can protect” their partner.

These narratives can normalize the idea that sacrificing privacy is proof of intimacy or devotion.

This is not love.

This mentality feeds directly into what is often framed as…

“Persistence = Passion” Stalking Myth

Many stories recast stalking and obsessive control as evidence of deep affection rather than danger.

Stories such as Scandal and Twilight often frame obsessive pursuit and emotional intensity as signs of profound romance rather than warning signs.

This results in a significant impact. Some studies have suggested that repeated exposure to romanticized persistence can increase tolerance for stalking myths and coercive behavior.

The “Reformed Villain” Archetype

This trope relies on the belief that the partner’s love can “fix” a perpetrator’s violent or coercive tendencies.

Consequently, it places the moral and emotional burden on the victim to endure violence and harm in hopes of a future change.

This can encourage audiences to sympathize with the perpetrator’s pain while minimizing the harm inflicted on the victim – reinforcing the “social shield.” Audiences are led to view the perpetrator’s behavior as a tragedy to pity or root for, rather than a violation to be condemned.

The “I Know You Want Better Than You Do” Trope

This is the cornerstone of romanticized coercion.

It displays a dangerous suggestion – when a character says “no,” they are lying to themselves, and the perpetrator is “saving” them by forcing the interaction.

This reinforces the rape myth that consent is a game rather than a requirement.

The “Rape & Forgive” Trope

This trope has appeared throughout the history of romance fiction and continues to persist in contemporary media.

In some stories, the perpetrator’s sexual violence is framed as an expression of uncontrollable passion, which leads to the victim falling in love with the perpetrator.

For example:

365 Days (film/book), depicts kidnapping where the victim is held captive against her will until she “gives in” and falls in love. Critics note this idea reinforces coercion and force can successfully “win” consent.

The impact of constant exposure to these narratives increases tolerance for real-world perpetrators and shifts focus from violence to “sex.”

The “Playing Hard To Get” Myth

This trope suggests that a woman or a man’s “no” is actually a “token resistance” to be overcome by the “determined” perpetrator.

In many dark romances, the male perpetrator is praised for “winning over” their partner who repeatedly expressed a lack of interest.

This validates the belief that a victim’s verbal and non-verbal cues are an invitation for “convincing,” affecting the power of the victim’s “no.”

Sadly, within fandoms, there is an escalation of such disturbing behavior.

Hence, the problem deepens within fandom spaces when these archetypes, myths, and tropes are ingrained and praised.

The Fandom’s Conception To Defense

Glorification Of The Perpetrator: When a character’s coercive or violent behavior is framed as a result of their “painful” and “tragic” past, the fandom would often shift the healing onto the victim. This mirrors a real-world tactic of finding “reasons” to excuse the perpetrator’s actions.

The “It’s Just Fiction” Shield: While fiction can be a space for exploration, this is the phrase that is often used to shut down any discussion of impact. When fans claim that stories do not influence real-world attitudes, they ignore how repeated exposure to “forced proximity” and “dubious consent” or “non-consent” subconsciously desensitizes us to those behaviors in reality.

What’s increasingly concerning is the targeted harassment of people who speak up.

The Harassment Of Critics: Enforcing Silence

One of the most unsettling parts of these spaces is the endless mistreatment of those who point out toxic patterns.

This is a “chilling effect” in action.

“Anti” Labels & Dogpiling: When critics are constantly labeled as “too sensitive” or “Puritans,” these are labels meant to delegitimize their concerns.

Silencing The Critique: By harassing people who analyze the ethics of a story, these reactions can discourage critical discussion and create environments where differing perspectives are pushed aside. This validates their own praise and what they refuse to challenge. One of those being: coercive dynamics become acceptable within the boundaries of the fantasy they want to preserve. This creates an environment where victims/survivors of real-world coercion feel unsafe or seen as “dramatic” for seeing their trauma reflected and rewarded in fiction.

When critics are bullied into silence for pointing out a lack of consent in a popular ship or storyline, the community effectively signals that the protection of a fictional fantasy is more important than the safety and dignity of real victims/survivors.

Fiction participates in cultural conditioning when harmful dynamics are repeatedly romanticized, normalized, defended, or stripped of critique.

Yet despite these patterns, criticism is often dismissed with one familiar response: “It’s just fiction.”

“It’s Just Fiction” – Why That Argument Falls Apart

The most common defense used to shut down these conversations is a simple phrase: “It’s just fiction.”

We must acknowledge the appeal of fiction as escapism. People use stories to explore themes, emotions, and fantasies they would never want to experience in reality.

However, our fantasies, desires, and expectations do not emerge from nowhere. They are shaped by what we see, hear, experience, and internalize from the world around us. Even escapism is still influenced by reality.

This is why the idea that fiction exists completely separate from real life is a deeply flawed assumption. Stories are created from human experiences, cultural attitudes, fears, desires, and social conditioning. Authors decide how those stories are framed, and audiences decide what they accept, romanticize, critique, or challenge.

Fiction is shaped by reality and, in turn, shapes how we interpret reality.

Stories do not just reflect our world; they help shape it.

When narratives repeatedly romanticize coercion or violence, they can influence how audiences emotionally interpret real-life relationships.

Framing matters.

If a story depicts assault as a tragedy, it critiques the act.

But when a story frames coercive or violent behavior as romantic – and rewards the perpetrator with love, redemption, or a “happily ever after” with the victim – it sends a very different message, validating the act.

The issue is not simply what is depicted. It is how the behavior is framed, justified, and rewarded within the narrative.

Repeated normalization creates a baseline of what we find acceptable, and that influence slowly seeps from the page into our lived perceptions of consent.

Conclusion

I wrote this because I have seen a growing pattern – rape and coercion being romanticized in media, and more importantly, in the communities that surround it.

It’s not just the content itself. It’s the way it is defended, downplayed, and even celebrated. I have seen people dismiss concerns with “it’s just fiction,” while others mock or harass those who speak up about the harm these portrayals can reinforce.

To be clear, the issue is not simply engaging with difficult or disturbing themes. Fiction has always explored the darker sides of humanity. The problem lies in the framing – and in the response to it.

When coercion is portrayed as romance, when boundaries are ignored but rewarded, and when audiences actively defend these narratives without critique, it can normalize harmful ideas about consent and relationships. Saying “I wouldn’t support this in real life” does not erase the impact of repeatedly consuming and validating those portrayals without question.

What we normalize in fiction does not stay confined to fiction. It shapes how we think, what we tolerate, and what we fail to challenge.

Resources

If you or someone you know has been affected by the themes discussed in this article, support is available. You don’t have to navigate this alone.

RAINN (National Sexual Assault Hotline – U.S.):

Call 1–800–656-HOPE or visit rainn.org.

Crisis Text Line:

Text HOME to 741741.

Find a Helpline (International Support):

Visit findahelpline.com

If you’re outside the U.S., Find a Helpline can connect you to local resources in your country.

You have been my grandest friend

You have taught me so well

I have learned more about myself with you

Even at times when I can’t look at myself

You have given me space when I most needed

And when I most resented

You have gifted me little treasures that comprise such great value

Treasures my hands could never hold

You have given me a world I could call my own

A reality that could be seen as impossible

You have shown me so much

Yet told me so little

You never leave me

I can never feel your touch

But you are there when I need you

And when you need me

You and I go hand in hand

We are here side by side

No matter the journey

No matter the paths

Together we are infinite

Growing

Forevermore.

How can ignorance be considered cute?

How is being clueless about another person’s culture, lived experience, language, appearance, or identity – things that fall under basic social awareness – framed as something endearing?

That isn’t harmless. That’s a gap in understanding that can lead to harm.

Ignorance is not a form of bliss. It’s a limitation. And when left unexamined, it becomes a burden – not just for the person who holds it, but for the people around them who are affected by it.

Online, ignorance is often infantilized – dressed up as innocence, naivety, or “they don’t know any better.” But that framing can be dangerous. It lowers the expectation for people to learn, reflect, and take responsibility.

Let’s be clear: not knowing something is human. No one is born informed.

But there is a difference between:

• not knowing and being willing to learn, and
• not knowing and being comfortable staying that way

The first is growth. The second is negligence.

What’s concerning is how often the second is excused.

When ignorance – especially about other people – is labeled as “cute,” it softens the impact of it. It turns something that should be addressed into something to be overlooked. And in doing so, it places the burden on others to tolerate it rather than expect better.

Calling ignorance “innocent” doesn’t remove its consequences.

And treating it as endearing doesn’t make it harmless.

It’s actually quite dangerous thinking. Let’s break down how ignorance is seen and treated.

Media’s Infantilization Problem

We all know social media is a place where ignorance can be rewarded.

These environments thrive on instant gratification, often framing a lack of awareness as something harmless – or even endearing:

“Oh, they don’t know any better.”

“It’s cute.”

“It’s fine, they’re just innocent.”

“They didn’t mean it.”

“They just didn’t know – but now they do.”

You’ll see comments like this everywhere – sometimes gentle, sometimes aggressive, but all with the same goal: to protect the person being infantilized.

This pattern shows up constantly on platforms like TikTok. Acting clueless or “ditzy” can become a persona – one that feels safe, relatable, and non-threatening. It attracts views, avoids conflict, and builds an audience without accountability.

But there’s a problem.

What looks like innocence is often willful ignorance – a way to protect one’s self-image. If you “don’t know,” you don’t have to feel responsible. If you’re seen as harmless, you don’t have to confront the impact of your behavior.

And subconsciously, people begin to blur the line between the two.

Ignorance vs. Innocence

Innocence and ignorance are not the same thing – but media and social algorithms often treat them as interchangeable.

Innocence is about intent.

Ignorance is about awareness.

You can mean well and still cause harm.

Naivety, in particular, has often been romanticized. Traits like being “unaware,” “sheltered,” or “pure” are framed as virtues rather than gaps in understanding.

You see this in common tropes like:

• the Manic Pixie Dream Girl
• the “fish out of water”
• the “innocent heroine” or “idealized hero”

These characters are often portrayed as charming because of what they don’t know. Their lack of awareness becomes a narrative device – something that makes them feel light, whimsical, and emotionally appealing.

But there’s an underlying issue.

Naivety is something we all experience – but it’s meant to be temporary. It’s a stage of learning, not a permanent identity.

When it’s treated as something to preserve rather than grow out of, it reinforces the idea that lack of awareness is preferable to understanding.

And that’s where the harm begins.

The Comfort of Not Knowing

Part of this comes from something very human.

As adults, many people feel overwhelmed by responsibility, awareness, and the weight of understanding the world more deeply. There’s a natural pull toward simpler times – toward a version of ourselves that didn’t have to think so hard or carry so much.

Infantilizing others can become a way of revisiting that feeling.

It’s not always intentional. But it is consequential.

Because when we protect ignorance – whether in ourselves or others – we lower the standard for growth.

Growth Requires Discomfort

Knowledge can feel heavy. Awareness can be uncomfortable. Growth often requires confronting things we’d rather avoid.

But that discomfort has purpose.

Ignorance isn’t something to romanticize or preserve. It’s something to move through.

And while it may be easier to excuse it, soften it, or label it as “cute,” doing so doesn’t remove its impact.

It just delays accountability.

It’s hard to unlearn that pattern.

But it’s worth it.

We shouldn’t be protecting people from the discomfort of learning.

We should be protecting the people who are affected when others choose not to learn.

Discomfort is part of growth. Avoiding it doesn’t preserve innocence – it delays accountability.

I’m open to hearing different perspectives, so I’d be interested in your thoughts.

How do you view ignorance – and where do you think the line should be drawn?

Please keep the discussion respectful and come with an open mind.