02/11/2026
We've stopped asking the most important question.
This past week and a half, a traumatic event unfolded less than a mile from my home. Within hours, it became content. Headlines. Speculation. Hot takes.
True crime is everywhere now. So are think pieces about burnout, breakdowns, and organizational crises. We frame it as awareness. As education. As storytelling that matters.
But we rarely ask: Who gets to tell this story?
Proximity doesn't equal permission. Curiosity doesn't outweigh consent. And intention—no matter how good—doesn't erase harm.
This pattern doesn't stay confined to media. It shows up in workplaces, too.
A team member's struggle becomes a leadership lesson. An exit interview becomes a LinkedIn post. A crisis becomes a case study, recognizable to everyone who lived it.
Rarely is consent discussed. Rarely is authorship preserved. Rarely is the emotional aftershock considered.
If we want genuinely resilient organizations, we need to ask better questions before we share:
❔ Is this story ours to tell?
❔ Who benefits from it being told this way?
❔ Who carries the emotional cost?
❔ What would consent look like here?
Resilience doesn't come from visibility alone. It comes from choice, dignity, and the ability to say: "This is my story, and I get to decide how it's told."
This goes deeper than social media. Read my full piece on consent, storytelling, and what organizations get wrong:
This past week and a half, I have been sitting with an uncomfortable truth: Someone's worst day is trending, and we're all watching. A traumatic event is unfolding less than a mile from my home. The abduction of Nancy Guthrie is still developing, and already it has become content. Headlines. Sp