To my readers:
I recognize that I tread on sensitive ground when writing about victims of sexual assault. I’ve made it clear—both in my podcast and in my writing—that I am a lifelong and ardent supporter of survivors of sexual violence. I grew up in a household where my mother served women caught in domestic abuse, and that experience shaped my values.
At the same time, I believe the #MeToo movement, while necessary, went too far in some instances—and in doing so, caused real harm to innocent people, myself included.
I write about this as someone who has been both a victim of sexual violence and someone who was wrongfully accused. My intention is to speak honestly, not to offend. But if I have inadvertently hurt or offended anyone who has experienced sexual violence, please accept my sincere apology.
Since releasing my podcast series, I’ve been surprised by the response from a few people I know, letters of apology for not being more supportive after I was arrested. They apologized for not reaching out privately or speaking up publicly. Given the political climate of 2017-2018, I wasn’t expecting much vocal support; people were afraid, so it wasn’t something I sought.
To understand what happened, it is helpful to recall the cultural climate of the time. In the fall of 2017, actress Alyssa Milano encouraged women to share their experiences of sexual harassment using the phrase “MeToo”—a term initially coined by activist Tarana Burke to spotlight survivors of color. The release of the Access Hollywood tape, in which Donald Trump bragged about sexual assault, didn’t stop him from winning the presidency. The outrage that followed ignited a reckoning across media, entertainment, politics, and beyond.
It was a chaotic and stressful time; as more stories were coming out about men who were accused of wrongdoing, it began to feel out of control. I never imagined I’d be accused of violent rape, let alone arrested, jailed, and humiliated in public, but that’s the nature of a moral panic, the rules change without notice, the “movement” grows, and more get taken, or at least that is how it felt for me.
What made it worse was the randomness of it all. I was accused without evidence, and yet, other men with well-worn reputations for questionable behavior were untouched. That randomness was part of what kept most people quiet, lest you spook the agitated who would then come looking for you. Friends I thought might defend me didn’t, others claimed they were taking the high road: “Let the justice system sort it out.”, and a few quietly disappeared. Speaking out meant risking public condemnation as a misogynist or rape apologist. In that climate, defending me, or even calling for fairness, was an act of heresy.
If there’s anything to carry forward, it’s the need for moral clarity when the next panic comes. Because it will come. And when it does, silence may feel safe, but it comes at a cost: to the culture, and the lives swept up in the moment. When we don’t speak, we cede the public square to the most contagious ideas, no matter how hollow. Moral panics don’t start with facts; they start with fear and spread through slogans. And once they take hold, the mob gains its strength not from certainty, but from herd immunity, protection by consensus, not by truth.
In 1895, French psychologist and polymath Gustave Le Bon took up the study of crowds and wrote about the psychology of groups in his fascinating book “The Crowd: A Study of the Popular Mind.” Although he wrote the book more than a century before the internet and social media, his insights into the behavior of crowds can also apply to online groups of like-minded believers. He wrote, “The intelligence of that creature known as a crowd is the square root of the number of people in it.” The larger the herd, the more irrational they become. Le Bon went on, “The masses have never thirsted after truth. They turn aside from evidence that is not to their taste, preferring to deify error if error seduces them.” In 2017, seductions ran amuck.
At its peak, one of the most misleading aspects of the #metoo movement was the idea that victims were acting courageously. Undoubtedly, that was true in some cases, but broadly speaking, the reason so many accusers spoke up was because they had incredible and unwavering support from activist cheerleaders, all of the media, and nearly every public institution.
My accuser was given public accolades for her “profound bravery.” But what courage did it require to make a false accusation at a time when doing so nearly guaranteed absolute power over me and when it was unlikely that anyone would challenge the details of her claims?
When you’re the accused, you are alone, the media hates you, you’re not welcomed in nearly every institution, and you are given nothing but scorn. You’ll lose your career too, not because you’re guilty, but because the activists want it; they need it to confirm their notion that the world is full of perverts that must be purged.
We shouldn’t reflexively defend everyone who’s accused any more than we should declare someone is guilty purely because someone made an accusation.
Speaking up may come at a cost, though mostly, it would be at the margins. Looking back, who should give a shit if some social media minion calls you names? Eventually, like the crowd at a rave, they move on, leaving behind the messes they’ve made.
Justice can’t survive in a culture where silence is safer than honesty, because, when fear keeps good people quiet, the loudest voices will write the story, and as I learned firsthand, truth isn’t their priority.
