Who’s offended depends on where you are: The global rules of reputation

Being offended isn’t a fact, it’s a feeling

One of the most misunderstood aspects of crisis PR is the belief that if you just tell the truth, everything will be fine. That if you put out a factual, well-worded statement, people will see reason and move on. But that’s not how it works anymore.

Because today, opinions often carry more weight than facts. And the problem with opinions is that they’re not universal, they’re personal. Shaped by culture, peer groups, algorithms, trauma, education, politics, and timing. And once someone decides how they feel, it rarely matters whether what you said was technically accurate. People respond to how it made them feel. Not what was actually said.

Take Pride, for example. Some LGBT people see it as vital, joyful, and empowering. Others find it cringe, corporate, or completely alienating. I know people who count down the days to Pride month, and others (equally part of the community) who actively avoid it and feel it does more harm than good. Same group, same subject, completely different reaction.

And this is the core truth in crisis comms that so many overlook: there is no version of a statement that will land well with everyone. Not when audiences are fractured, emotions are high, and the same sentence can be read a dozen different ways depending on who’s reading it. Say something, and you’ll be dissected. Say nothing, and you’ll be read into.

There’s no perfect response. Only calculated ones. And even those come with risk.

Cultural context changes everything

A major factor people overlook when reacting to a crisis is geography. Just because a scandal gains traction online doesn’t mean it’s global, or even relevant outside a specific region. What provokes outrage in one country might barely register in another. And issues that feel non-negotiable in one culture can seem niche, irrelevant, or confusing elsewhere.

In some countries, public debate centres around LGBT rights. In others, race and inequality dominate. The direction of social progress isn’t universal - it’s shaped by history, demography, and national identity. A country with a largely homogenous population might see itself as progressive, but still lack basic fluency around race or immigration. Meanwhile, a more diverse nation might be deeply engaged in those conversations, but lag behind on gender or sexuality.

Privilege plays a part here too. In places where day-to-day life feels safe and secure, people often have the luxury of choosing what to care about, and they care passionately. But it can lead to a kind of moral tunnel vision, where local priorities are mistaken for global truths.

This matters in PR because a global statement that reflects one region’s values can easily alienate another. If you treat a specific cultural lens as the default, you risk talking past the very people you’re trying to reach. Understanding who you’re actually speaking to, and how their context shapes what they hear, isn’t just useful, it’s essential.

The illusion of a shared internet

The internet gives the illusion that we’re all reacting to the same things. But reputationally, it doesn’t work like that. What you see online is a reflection of your own habits, not the world’s. If you engage with political posts, you’ll see more politics. If you click on controversy, you’ll be fed more outrage. It’s not a mirror of reality, it’s a mirror of your behaviour.

My own TikTok algorithm changes constantly, not because I’m flitting between personal interests, but because my clients change. I often spend hours immersed in content around a specific topic or identity, just to understand the current mood around it. One week it’s gambling, the next it’s political unrest in a country I’ve never even visited.

Recently, I was working with a client involved in trans-related issues. Until then, I’d barely seen anything on that topic. Within 48 hours, my feed was full of it - some supportive, some angry, some entirely unrelated. It wasn’t a sudden global shift in priorities. It was the algorithm doing its job, assuming I wanted more of what I’d watched.

And that’s the trap. It’s dangerously easy to mistake personalised content for cultural consensus. You think everyone’s talking about something, when really it’s just your feed. In crisis PR, that misreading can be costly. Because if you mistake algorithmic pressure for public pressure, you risk overcorrecting for an audience that might not even exist beyond your screen.

The advice bubble

One of the most common issues I run into during a cancellation is advice from friends. When someone’s being publicly criticised, the people around them often feel compelled to help - out of loyalty, panic, or a belief that they know best. But knowing someone personally doesn’t make you qualified to manage their reputation.

And it’s rarely harmless. I’ve had clients whose friends pushed back against my strategy because it didn’t align with their values, or what they thought would play well in their circles. But in a crisis, your audience isn’t your inner circle. Your friends might forgive you. The wider public might not. Or vice versa.

It puts me in difficult positions, where I have to be direct and explain that following a friend’s advice could escalate things. And I’ve seen it happen, clients ignoring professional guidance in favour of emotional loyalty, only to dig themselves in deeper. At that point, I’m not just managing the original issue. I’m managing the fallout of their misstep too.

Unless you’ve worked on these cases under real pressure - with legal teams involved, media outlets circling, and reputations shifting by the hour -you’re not equipped to advise on them. And unless you understand how platforms amplify backlash, how screenshots can be manipulated, or how narratives travel through comment sections faster than corrections ever can, you’ll underestimate the damage bad advice can cause.

What feels emotionally right rarely matches what works reputationally. I’ve given clients advice I wouldn’t agree with personally, and wouldn’t support as a member of the public. But I’m not here to reflect their character. I’m here to protect their future.

Social bubbles aren’t reality

In progressive spaces, it’s easy to start believing your values are the standard. You follow people who think like you. You hear the same opinions so often they start to feel like facts. You learn what you can and can’t say, and start tiptoeing around the more politically correct voices in your circle. But just because something feels obvious in your world doesn’t mean it is everywhere else. Confusing your own bubble with public consensus is one of the fastest ways to misread a crisis.

You can live in a big city and still only speak to people who agree with you. Online, it’s even more extreme. Algorithms feed you content that reinforces what you already believe. You see your views amplified, and because they’re loud, you assume they’re universal.

And even within those comfortable social bubbles, there’s still performance. You adjust depending on who you’re with. There are friends you can joke with, and others you tread carefully around. You know which opinions are safe to say out loud, and which ones are better kept to yourself. It might feel like a safe space, but it’s still a curated one.

Take the ankle sock example. Millennials wore them for years. Then Gen Z turned on them. Suddenly there were TikToks mocking anyone still wearing them, some even filming strangers in public to shame them. It’s a petty example, but it mirrors how cancellation works. A loud minority performs judgement publicly, and it spreads.

But most people wouldn’t do that. They might quietly judge and move on. And that’s the point.

It’s only online that judgement becomes theatre. And even then, it isn’t representative, it’s just visible. But those are the voices clients panic about. When really, it’s the quiet majority you need to protect, the ones who say nothing, but still decide what they think.

The 80% who say nothing

The people you don’t hear from are often the most important. They’re not tweeting. They’re not stitching videos. They’re not posting angry comments. They’re just watching, if they’re even watching at all.

Because in most cases, the majority of your audience won’t have seen the backlash. They’re not deep in niche TikTok discourse. They’re not scanning callout threads. They follow you casually, maybe they like your music, maybe they’ve seen your content now and then - but they’re not emotionally invested. They’re not looking for a scandal, and they’re certainly not going out of their way to dissect one.

And for the smaller portion who have seen something? Most won’t comment. They might quietly judge. They might pause before liking a post. They might decide not to buy a ticket, or they might shrug and carry on. But they’re not joining the pile-on. They’re not sending hate. They’re not part of the performance.

These people matter more than anyone else. Because they’re the ones who decide whether your career holds up. They’re the ones who stream, buy, turn up, or disappear, quietly. And if you try to appease the loudest voices online while alienating this group, you’ll lose the people who were never shouting, but always watching.

That’s why you have to be careful before going public with a response. The moment you post a statement, you push the issue in front of your entire audience - not just the few already talking about it. You turn a small online backlash into a bigger story by inviting everyone to take a side.

So before you respond, ask yourself, is this something the majority even knows about? And if not, are you sure you want to show them?

Why most crisis advice online fails

Most crisis advice online isn’t based on strategy. It’s based on personal emotion. You’ll see comments like “They should’ve apologised straight away” or “I would’ve just addressed it head on,” as if there’s one universal rulebook. But nearly all of these takes are filtered through individual values, not audience insight.

What feels honest to one group might come across as performative to another. What sounds confident in one culture might seem aggressive somewhere else. And what looks like accountability in your bubble might look like self-sabotage to the public.

And that bubble isn’t just social, it’s platform-specific. TikTok rewards outrage. Instagram leans more polished and curated. Twitter encourages opinion, but often lacks context. Forums, Reddit threads, and fan spaces all operate by their own unwritten rules. What works on one platform can backfire on another entirely.

That’s why people hire professionals. Because strategy means looking at the full landscape, not just appeasing the loudest crowd. And often, the loudest crowd is just one corner of the internet.

What people don’t see

Most real crisis management doesn’t happen on the timeline. It’s not a Notes app apology. It’s not a perfectly worded video. It’s what happens behind the scenes.

It’s knowing whether something’s made the press. It’s tracking sentiment in different regions. It’s catching a caption before it spirals. It’s deciding not to post at all in one market, while carefully managing the message in another.

And sometimes, the best move is silence, not because the issue’s being ignored, but because it’s being handled properly, away from public view.

Don’t mistake volume for scale

If you’re only watching the loudest reactions, you’ll make the wrong call. If you’re only listening to friends who agree with you, you’ll make the wrong call. And if you think your feed reflects the real world, you’ll definitely make the wrong call.

Being offended is personal. Being strategic is professional.

My job isn’t to please the most sensitive voices online. My job is to protect someone’s career. That means keeping their reputation steady enough for work to continue - brand deals, collaborations, bookings, trust. The reality is, that doesn’t happen by appeasing extremes. It happens by understanding where the middle sits, and what the majority actually thinks.

If a client reacts too strongly in one direction, they risk alienating the other. And more importantly, they risk losing the moderate, quiet audience in the centre, the ones who aren't shouting, but who ultimately decide whether someone’s career survives.

Real crisis PR isn’t about agreeing with everyone. It’s about choosing who to lose least, and keeping enough of the right people with you to keep going.