dear diary, someone’s son is angry again

a small confession about hate, strangers, and being visible

Hey,

Your son sent me hate from a Twitter account with 100 followers.

He called me names I can’t repeat. He commented on my body, my voice, my career. He told me I should shut up, I don’t deserve anything, and I should die. I don’t know him, but he knows me, or at least he thinks he does. He knows the curated version of me, the one that exists in pixels.

Sometimes I wonder what happens to people online. How easy it becomes to forget that a human is behind a screen. That a woman posting a thought isn’t an invitation for rage, that a difference in opinion isn’t a declaration of war.

But this is what the internet has become: a public square with everyone shouting, and no one listening.

And no, this isn’t really about your son. It’s about everyone’s son. The one who hides behind an anime profile picture and a username like @thetruthhurts123. The one who scrolls, doom-posts, and then decides to release his frustration into the nearest woman with visibility.

It’s the same boy who was told he’s special, that he deserves more than what life gave him, but he didn’t get the job, or the girl, or the validation. He’s angry. And somewhere along the way, the internet handed him a megaphone for that anger.

You may think it’s harmless. Just words. Just comments. But words become culture. And culture becomes violence.

Every month, my Twitter account reaches millions of people. Which means I’m pushed into circles I never intended to enter, conversations I didn’t sign up for, and timelines full of strangers who don’t know me but feel entitled to dislike me on sight.

My own audience is kind, genuinely, beautifully kind, but you and I both know the algorithm doesn’t care about kindness. Algorithms care about engagement. And outrage is the most engaging thing in the world.

It’s not personal. It’s structural.

It is the architecture of this place, the way the algorithm rewards outrage, how Twitter (sorry, X) and Reddit and Instagram are all designed to keep us angry, divided, loud. The angrier we are, the longer we stay. The longer we stay, the more we scroll. The more we scroll, the more money someone makes.

And in the middle of all this, someone’s son, someone’s daughter, someone’s sister, stops feeling real.

We’ve built an internet where anonymity is both freedom and a weapon. Where you can build a blank account, hurl hate, stalk strangers, watch their lives unfold like episodes, and convince yourself you’re invisible.

Where you can say the cruellest thing, refresh your feed, and go back to your day like nothing happened.

Reddit threads dedicated to “exposing” women. Instagram reels mocking creators for their voices, their faces, their skin. Twitter replies that turn political disagreements into gendered abuse. It’s not isolated. It’s systemic. And it’s getting meaner.

And yes, maybe it comes with the territory. Maybe having a public profile makes you “fair game.” Maybe being visible means being vulnerable. But I refuse to believe visibility should come at the cost of safety.

You don’t get to dehumanise someone just because you can see them through a screen.

A few months ago, I spoke to a journalist friend who said something that’s stayed with me: “We’ve confused proximity for permission.” Just because you can reach someone, doesn’t mean you should. You wouldn’t walk up to a stranger in a café and yell about their appearance, but somehow, the internet makes you believe you can. If you have a public profile, the world assumes it has public rights over you.

I still remember the time someone on Twitter told me I “deserved” the hate because I was “putting myself out there.”

And what’s ironic is that all of this — the vitriol, the trolling, the stalking — doesn’t come from power. It comes from powerlessness. From people who feel invisible in their own lives, looking for a place where their voice feels loud again.

But here’s the thing: that loudness isn’t power. It’s a projection.

Every time I open my DMs and see hate sitting next to kindness, I remind myself that both are symptoms of the same disease, a loneliness that the internet promised to cure, but only made worse.

And I get it. I really do. I understand rage, frustration, and helplessness.
But I also know that using someone on the internet as a punching bag for your dissatisfaction is not liberation, it’s cowardice.

So, dear everyone’s son, next time you think about sending hate from your blank account, remember that I’m real. That the person you’re typing about has a pulse, a job, and a life away from the internet.

And maybe, just maybe, close the app. Go touch grass. Call your friend. Tell your mother you love her. Read something that doesn’t end with a comment section.

Because when you look up from the screen long enough, you might remember that the world still exists and that no one wins on the internet.