The mask of honesty: Why anonymity turns people into their worst and strangest selves
I’ve read the studies, I know the theory, But still, part of me can't shake the image, what if you're out on a few dates with someone who seems perfectly normal, only to later discover they spend their free time anonymously slagging off celebrities in the comments section of Instagram, Tik Tok or wherever? It’s ridiculous, obviously, but the image still amuses me. Because these people exist. They are real. They could be your colleague, the quiet guy on your morning commute, the cheerful barista who knows your coffee order by heart, your overly enthusiastic dog walker, the monotonous voice announcing delays on the tube, or, even worse, your own relative. It's funny until you realise how likely it actually is.
The psychology behind anonymity online is fascinating yet troubling. Platforms like Instagram encourage meticulously curated personas filled with performative happiness, perfect sunsets, flawless brunch photos, carefully staged moments, and, when it’s safe for their image, even performative outrage. However, given anonymity on Reddit, TikTok, or online forums, or even through fake, no-profile photo Instagram accounts created solely for lobbing insults, these polished personas can shift into something darker and far less inhibited.
What’s striking is how many people consciously pick up their phones and decide, with full intent, "I'm going to be a complete dickhead to a stranger." It's not reactive. It’s deliberate. Psychological research backs this up. The "online disinhibition effect," studied by psychologist John Suler, explains how anonymity erodes our social filters, giving people a strange sense of permission to behave in ways they never would offline. Without accountability, empathy fades, and cruelty is more easily justified.
Albert Bandura’s research into moral disengagement also plays into this. When people don’t feel connected to the consequences of their actions, it becomes easier to act harmfully. Anonymity gives people distance,from others, from guilt, from themselves.
In contrast, platforms like LinkedIn, where your actions are directly tied to your real identity, breed restraint. Even mild sarcasm can backfire professionally, so people tread carefully. It’s a strange kind of behavioural experiment, and the results are clear: remove consequences, and many people lose the plot entirely. Fake accounts are rare on LinkedIn, which makes it a relatively safe space from the usual chaos of cancel culture, though it carries its own issues, mostly to do with performance, competition and ego. But that's a different story entirely.
And here’s something I’d love to see, purely as a thought experiment: what would cancel culture look like if, by law, everyone had to post under their real name, with passport ID linked to every account? I know this would never happen, of course, but imagine it for a moment. Would it even exist? How many people would still pile on? The sheer volume of anonymous outrage suggests that without the safety of facelessness, most of it would collapse. And what does that tell us? That a large part of cancel culture, like online bullying more broadly, is performative, weak, and fundamentally dependent on a lack of personal risk.
The duality created by these digital spaces is shaping a fragmented culture that affects far more than just celebrities. Ordinary users now juggle glossy Instagram identities with secret Reddit accounts, creating a personal split between public performance and private hostility.
Ultimately, we have to ask whether anonymity reveals truth or simply removes shame. Perhaps real authenticity isn’t about what people show when they think no one knows who they are, but what they choose to say when they know everyone does.