By Negin Khodayari

If you spend any time online during moments of global crisis, you already know the routine. A tragedy happens. Timelines flood with posts, stories, statements and graphics. Then comes the second wave: the scrutiny. Who posted fast enough? Who posted at all? Who posted the “right” thing? And who stayed silent?

Somewhere along the way, we decided caring looks one specific way—usually an Instagram story—and that anything outside of that is suspicious. Caring has become something you’re expected to prove publicly. If you don’t, you’re complicit. Your morality is questioned.

But movements were never meant to function like this.

Social media is a tool, not a moral compass. Posting doesn’t automatically make someone informed, ethical or effective. And choosing not to post doesn’t mean someone doesn’t care. People engage in movements in wildly different ways. Some organize on the ground. Some donate. Some are educating themselves. Some are having conversations offline, supporting friends or doing community work that doesn’t photograph well. Some people are exhausted, grieving or simply trying to survive their own lives.

Somewhere along the way, we decided caring looks one specific way

None of that fits neatly into a 24-hour story—but it still matters.

What’s especially damaging is how quickly this turns into comparing tragedies. We start measuring suffering against suffering, arguing over which injustice deserves more attention. As if empathy is something we’ll run out of if we acknowledge more than one pain at a time. As if caring about one thing means you must be silent about another.

This kind of thinking doesn’t challenge power. It mirrors it.

Instead of directing our anger at systems that perpetuate violence and inequality, we turn on each other. We dissect language. We algorithmize grief. We accuse people of not doing enough, not caring enough, not performing correctly. Calling each other out online replaces human conversations. Nuance gets labeled as indifference.

And honestly? It’s exhausting.

Performatism thrives in this environment. It rewards certainty, even if wrong, over curiosity and outrage over understanding. It’s easy to post something that signals you’re “on the right side.” It’s much harder to sit with complexity, to admit gaps in knowledge or to stay engaged when there’s no applause for it. When no one’s liking your stories in awe.

Nuance gets labeled as indifference

What gets lost is empathy—both for the people directly impacted by tragedy and for each other. We forget that people carry different capacities, fears, and responsibilities. We forget that not everyone feels safe speaking publicly. We forget that patience is not the same as apathy.

Movements don’t fall apart because people care too little. They fall apart because we start believing care has to look identical.

If we want real change, we need to stop treating activism like a performance and start treating each other like humans. That means offering empathy instead of suspicion. Patience instead of instant judgment. It means trusting that people can show up differently and still be aligned in values.

Unity doesn’t mean everyone posting the same thing at the same time. It means resisting the urge to attack each other online and remembering why we’re here in the first place. Not to win arguments. Not to look morally superior. But to push for a world that’s actually more just—together.