I’m done canceling celebrities

but I am watching them very closely like a suspicious aunt

I’ve officially retired from the celebrity cancellation committee. I’ve handed in my badge, turned off my Twitter notifications, and stopped screenshotting apologies like they’re war declarations. (If I see one more Notes app apology, I might actually scream.) I’m no longer dragging people to the digital guillotine for being problematic in 2014. I’m bored. I’m over it. I’m free.

But don’t get me wrong. I still believe in consequences, context, and calling things what they are. I’m still watching. Always watching. Like a judgmental aunt at a family function who knows you stole money from your grandma’s purse in 2011 and hasn’t said a word… yet.

But the energy it takes to publicly negate someone every week? To act like my reposts on TikTok will tip the scales of justice? It’s giving futility. It’s giving theater. And most of all, it’s giving distraction.

I used to think cancelling a celebrity was an act of justice. That if we all collectively shamed a pop star hard enough, balance would be restored to the universe and my rent would magically drop by 200 euros. Spoiler: it didn’t. All it did was stress me out, kill my playlists, and turn my group chats into miniature courtrooms where everyone’s a lawyer with a minor in TikTok ethics.

Now I just observe, side-eye, and archive the receipts. I’m not pretending my faves are good people. I just accept that they’re people. Messy. Flawed. Inconsistent. And extremely rich, which, let’s be honest, probably makes them worse.

I can’t cancel someone who doesn’t even know I exist. I mean, what am I going to do? Email Doechii and tell her I’m disappointed? No. I’m going to listen to Nissan Altima for the 400th time and silently hope she never fumbles her public image because I simply cannot afford to lose Alligator Bites Never Heal to a controversy. Not in this economy.

The weirdest thing about cancelling celebrities is how personal it feels, like they betrayed you specifically. And that’s when you realize: oh this isn’t just about right and wrong. This is a parasocial break-up. I wasn’t just disappointed in them, I was hurt. Like, full-body ache. Crying to my friends. Mourning the version of them I made up in my head.

Parasocial relationships are a scam we all agreed to participate in. I know Aubrey Plaza doesn’t know me. I know Charles Leclerc isn’t my sweet little TV boyfriend. But try telling that to my nervous system when one of them breathes funny in an interview. The bond isn’t real, but the feelings are. And that disconnect messes you up.

It’s wild how these strangers live in our heads like unpaid tenants. I’ve spent more time analyzing certain celebrities’ facial expressions than my own reflection. I’ve defended them like they were my blood relatives. I’ve said, “They’re not problematic, they’re just misunderstood,” like I was their PR manager. All because they made one good album or had one relatable Tumblr quote in 2013.

And don’t get me started on the grief. When your favorite celeb gets “exposed,” it’s like finding out your imaginary friend was a sexual predator. You're not just embarrassed, you’re emotionally evicted. You built a fantasy life around this person and now it’s ruined by the reality of who they are. Or worse: who they never were.

The idea that celebrities are being “held accountable” is, frankly, hilarious. No one’s being held. There’s no account. There’s just vibes and reposts. The apology cycle has become a genre in itself. Cue the Notes app screenshot, the muted comment section, the appearance on a podcast no one asked for, and the vague promise to “do better.” And we eat it up every time. We know it’s performative. We know they’re not sorry, just sorry we found out, but we still act like that screenshot is a sacred scroll.

What we’re really watching isn’t justice. It’s brand management.

Accountability—real accountability— requires consequences. It means actually changing behavior, making amends, giving power back. But for celebrities, it just means taking a break from Instagram and reappearing with a new stylist and a puppy. And we accept that because we don’t want them gone, we just want to feel like we did something.

Cancelling doesn’t dismantle the machine. It feeds it. Every think piece, every callout thread, every “omg I’m devastated” TikTok… it’s engagement. It’s press. It’s revenue. Even their downfall becomes content. A redemption arc is always around the corner, and we love a comeback story. It’s like we’ve forgotten that the public apology is a business decision. The “growth journey” is a rollout strategy. And our outrage? That’s free marketing.

We don’t cancel celebrities. We rebrand them.

Which brings me to the current mess: Blue Origin, billionaires, and the influencer-to-astronaut pipeline. A masterclass in pseudofeminism, sponsored by the ozone hole. They’re floating. We’re drowning.

And somehow, we’re still expected to clap.

I need celebrities to shut the f up. You don’t all have to be activists. You don’t have to speak on every world event or every economic collapse. Just sit there and do whatever makes you a celebrity. Make music, act, do your makeup, look good, post the fit check and keep it pushing. Whatever. That’s the gig. Not everyone needs to be a spokesperson for the end of the world.

Parasocial relationships and internet culture turned us all into unpaid HR managers for celebrities.

We monitor their every move, file complaints, and issue warnings like we’re in charge of moral compliance. There’s no room for curiosity, no room for waiting or nuance. Just vibes, verdicts, and viral clips. And god forbid you take more than five seconds to pick a side—or you’re suddenly “part of the problem.”

So I’ve stopped. I’m done being spiritually tethered to people I don’t know. These days, I’m on a vibe I like to call conscious consumption with a sprinkle of spiritual detachment. I still enjoy things, I still talk my shit, I still throw shade—but I curate my feed instead of trying to correct the world. I let go of the delusion that my repost is a revolution.

You can still feel things. You can still make memes. You can still be petty. But you don’t have to sacrifice your sanity at the altar of celebrity morality.

Tap out of the outrage cycle. Touch some grass. Eat your snacks. Let people flop in peace. And if your fave fumbles… well. That’s what the block button is for.

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Thank you so much for reading! If you enjoyed this and want to fuel more overthinking, storytelling, and occasional strokes of (accidental) genius, you can leave a tip — or buy me a matcha at the overpriced café where I pretend to be extremely mysterious while staring at my screen. No pressure. Just eternal gratitude… and maybe a questionable plot twist or two :)