Why everyone thinks they’re a PR expert when a scandal breaks

The moment a celebrity scandal breaks, the internet divides into two camps: those demanding “accountability” and those who suddenly believe they are crisis PR consultants. TikTok fills up with “If I were their publicist, I’d…” videos, complete with serious expressions and bullet-point strategies, as if a million armchair experts with no experience in reputational damage have cracked the code.

The fantasy of control

Part of the appeal is the illusion of control. People like to imagine they could fix a scandal with one clever move. It is the same instinct as shouting at a football match from the sofa. Except here, the stakes are careers, contracts and mental health, not missed penalties.

Why TikTok advice is flawed

The most common line from TikTok commentators is “they should just apologise.” But apologies are rarely that simple. The wrong wording can open someone up to lawsuits, void insurance or enrage sponsors. Silence, which outsiders interpret as cowardice, is often the only legally safe option. What looks obvious from the outside is usually impossible on the inside.

Here is the real red flag. When someone on TikTok says “here’s how I would handle this crisis,” they never even acknowledge that they have no idea what is happening behind the scenes. They speak with certainty, but their entire analysis is based on the public version of events. And that version is often incomplete, distorted or outright wrong.

When the public only sees ten percent

Of course people are going to believe a woman when she says she has been abused by her husband. It is the instinctive reaction, because people do not want to believe that somebody would invent something so serious. But sadly, it happens more often than most would like to think.

I have had clients in that exact situation. An ex-wife went public with serious allegations, and the internet instantly believed her. Meanwhile, behind the scenes I had police reports, lawyers and ring camera footage showing that the events had not unfolded as she claimed. In private meetings, she later admitted it was not true, that she had said it out of anger and a desire to get him back.

Even then, the politics are complicated. My client, who could have cleared his name completely, did not want to ruin his ex-wife’s life by exposing her admission. And even if we had, there is another trap. If a man comes forward and says, “she admitted she made it up,” the internet is quick to frame it as coercion, as if he pressured her to retract her claim. And right now, people love to hate men. It is one of the strangest and most toxic parts of the internet, this blanket hostility that colours every situation. Even when men present proof, they are still painted as villains. I think it is fucking weird how much people hate men right now.

And all of this plays out while I am on the phone to his media contacts, who are understandably panicked. He had regular television work, brand relationships and contracts that suddenly looked unstable. I presented them with the truth so they knew what had actually happened, but their main concern was still their own reputations. Was he a risk to their shows? Would their advertisers walk? Could they be accused of platforming someone accused of abuse? Irrespective of the facts, they were hesitant to stand by him until the situation was fully resolved. The complexities of managing something like this behind the scenes are staggering. It is not just about clearing a name, it is about holding everything else together while the storm is at its peak.

The cruelty economy

The truth is that most people do not actually want the crisis solved. They want the spectacle to continue. TikTok thrives on endless reaction videos, duets and commentary. Bad PR advice fuels this because “they handled this badly” keeps the conversation alive. A resolution ends the drama. Outrage keeps the algorithm fed.

And for the TikTok creators themselves, there is an incentive. Becoming the loudest voice on a trending scandal can bring a huge, if temporary, following. Some build entire accounts off the back of being the “go-to” voice on a single situation. But their analysis is limited to what the public already knows, and what works as content is rarely what works in reality.

When friends think they are PR experts

It is not just TikTok creators who think they know best. Friends and family often step in with advice during a crisis, believing that because they have known someone for years, they are best placed to guide them. Knowing the person and understanding how reputational management works are two very different things. Loyalty can make friends feel protective, but it can also cloud judgement.

When I am hired to handle a crisis, I come in from a non-emotive place. My role is to assess the situation clearly, map out the risks and identify what needs protecting. Is there a brand deal we cannot afford to lose? Is there a broadcasting contract with strict morality clauses? Is there a TV show at risk of being pulled? Does a record label need to be reassured to keep a musician on track? Are there political implications that could spill into the press? Every case is a puzzle of moving parts, and my job is to protect the client on every front while steering them into a stronger position than before.

Friends, however well-meaning, do not think that way. They think emotively. They focus on what feels nicest, what makes their friend look most sympathetic in the moment, or what they themselves would like to hear if the roles were reversed. It is sweet in practice, and in an ideal world it is how I would prefer things to work too. But it does not fix reputational problems. In reality, it usually makes them worse. Nine times out of ten, the “just be honest” or “just ignore it” approach only deepens the damage.

The human factors no one sees

There is also the mental health side of crisis management, which TikTok never considers. Behind the scenes, clients are often dealing with enormous pressure, and sometimes the “obvious” fix is simply not possible for them to carry out.

I have had clients where there was, on paper, a straightforward way to defend them. In one case, all they needed to do was gather a set of legal documents that would have cleared them. But to do that they would have had to make phone calls, request bank statements, and face paperwork they were terrified to even look at. When I suggested it, I could see their face drop in that way people do when they are at breaking point, silently saying, “please don’t make me do this.” They physically could not handle it.

At that stage, pushing them harder would have done more harm than good. My role became finding another route around the problem that would protect them without breaking them. It is not always about what is technically possible, it is about what is humanly possible. Sometimes in crisis PR, you are not just managing reputations, you are managing people who are terrified, exhausted and fragile. Think of it as a less glamorous version of Legally Blonde: Elle Woods could not reveal her client had liposuction, even though it would have cleared her instantly, because it would have destroyed her career. She had to find another way around it. That is essentially day-to-day in crisis PR.

The real PR reality

When you are actually working with the client, the picture is completely different to what the public sees. The public only has the surface. Behind the scenes there are multiple layers: contracts with broadcasters, brand sponsors threatening to pull deals, lawyers dictating wording, families in crisis, and mental health concerns that matter more than any statement. Fixing the ten percent the public sees is important, but in most cases the real work is protecting the ninety percent they never will. That is the part TikTok, friends and outsiders never factor in.

There is a reason crisis PR exists as a profession. It is not about performing for TikTok or appeasing strangers. It is about navigating a minefield where every option has costs, most of which will never be visible to the public. And that is something no armchair expert, however close to the person, can fully grasp in a sixty second clip or a friendly phone call.