Why taking your friend’s advice in a crisis ruined the strategy

Somewhere between “I just want to help” and “I know what’s best,” a reputation quietly collapses.

I’ve lost count of how many public figures I’ve worked with whose crisis was under control until a friend stepped in. The intentions are usually sweet. The consequences usually aren’t.

And I get it. When you’re panicking, you reach for the people you trust. But trust doesn’t equal strategy. And if you’re in the middle of a reputational storm, your friends are not your PR team.

The rewritten statement that ruined the strategy

In one case, I sent a client a carefully balanced holding statement. Calm, professional, legally reviewed. It was designed to lower the temperature, acknowledge without inflaming, and appeal to as many people as possible across a fractured, angry audience.

Shortly after, the client asked if their friend could have access to edit the document. I explained that I didn’t recommend that. Not only had the statement already been through legal checks, but it had also been carefully structured to avoid language that could backfire. It wasn’t just a paragraph of thoughts. It was a reputational shield.

The friend insisted. And I could tell the client was stressed, overwhelmed, and trying to keep everyone happy. So I said fine, but made it very clear that any changes made by a friend were outside of my advice and outside of my liability.

What came back was exactly what I’d warned against. They’d softened it emotionally, added unnecessary apologies, removed legally important phrases, and reworded it in a way that made the entire message incoherent. It was a statement that didn’t make sense and was, bluntly, a guaranteed career killer.

I warned my client privately what would happen if they posted it. And alas, that outcome happened. The brand deals were gone within days, their follower count dropped sharply, and the online response became even more brutal. Videos appeared dissecting the statement line by line, mocking the tone, and highlighting just how badly it had been handled. It was exactly the kind of fallout we’d been trying to avoid.

“I’ve known them for 15 years - I know what’s best”

When I hear this sentence, whether it’s five years, ten, twenty or thirty - I instantly feel like picking up my bag and leaving. Because I know exactly what’s coming. It’s not collaboration. It’s not insight. It’s a battle.

A battle with someone who thinks their emotional proximity overrides everything else. The friend who acts like an unofficial manager. The one who sits in on meetings, despite having no relevant experience, and subtly undermines the strategy in real time.

I’ve had friends of clients call me directly, without the client knowing, to explain why my approach won’t work, but theirs will. I’ve had clients ask if we can blend their friend’s version with mine to keep everyone happy. But the reality is, statements like these aren’t designed for compromise. They have to be consistent, precise, and legally sound. The wording matters. Every sentence carries weight. Mixing two different tones or strategies usually weakens both. It creates confusion, dilutes the message, and opens the door for interpretation you can’t control. When the stakes are high, clarity is everything. And compromise doesn’t always mean balance. Sometimes it just means risk.

And if a friend is pushing so hard to be involved that you feel guilty not using their version, they’re not protecting you. They’re protecting their own need to be right. When someone cares more about being listened to than about what might actually help you survive a crisis, that’s not someone you should be relying on during one.

When friends push to be part of the story

Sometimes the interference isn’t just about offering advice. It’s about involvement. I’ve had friends of clients ask to be quoted in statements. One asked if they could be tagged when the post went live. Another asked if I could help them get an interview to share their side of the story.

This happens more than you’d expect, especially when the friend has their own public profile or is trying to build one. The moment the crisis becomes a way to gain proximity or platform, the advice stops being about you.

Even when it’s not self-serving, it’s often emotionally charged. Friends will say things like “I just don’t think it sounds like you” or “This won’t sit right with people.” But they’re speaking from a personal connection. They’re not analysing the broader media climate, or your contractual risks, or how your next six months might be affected if this gets worse.

And in some cases, it’s not just the input that causes harm - it’s the delay. I’ve seen carefully timed responses miss their moment entirely because a client was going back and forth trying to keep everyone happy. By the time the post was agreed, the tone had shifted, speculation had escalated, and it was no longer the right move. Friends don’t see timing as part of strategy, but in crisis PR it’s often the most important part.

There’s also the issue of confidentiality. The more people looped into a sensitive response, the higher the risk of something being screenshotted, summarised or misinterpreted elsewhere. I’ve had clients send statements around group chats asking for “thoughts” before they’d even approved them internally. Even when nothing leaks, you’ve already lost control of the narrative. And that control is exactly what most people hire me to protect.

The problem with tunnel-visioned advice

One of the most common patterns I see is friends giving advice based on what they’ve seen online, often from a very politically correct corner of the internet. Their own timelines are filled with people they agree with, and they assume that reflects public consensus.

But it doesn’t. It reflects their algorithm.

Some of the most emotionally persuasive advice comes from friends who see themselves as highly progressive or politically engaged. They genuinely believe there is only one acceptable way to respond, and if you don’t match that tone exactly, they’ll say you’re out of touch, or soft, or complicit. But this kind of thinking is often more about optics than strategy. It doesn’t account for the full audience. And it doesn’t allow space for the fact that most people don’t see the world in such binary terms.

I’ve seen clients pushed into issuing statements that pleased a small, very vocal group and alienated everyone else. Not because they were wrong, but because they assumed that echo chamber was universal. It isn’t.

What I’m actually looking at when I advise you

The decisions I make with clients aren’t based on opinion. They’re based on a stack of factors most people don’t even know are at play.

That includes legal advice, media tone, search results, journalist interest, brand guidelines, stakeholder pressure, timing windows, licensing complications, defamation risk, talent expectations, label deals, broadcaster contracts and political image agreements. If the client is a presenter, we might be navigating editorial compliance. If they’re a musician, it could be about who owns the master. If they’re a politician, there are party rules about messaging, public conduct and scheduling I have to follow. These things exist long before a crisis and shape how you respond to one.

Friends don’t see any of that. So their advice might feel emotionally right, but be strategically disastrous.

The real cost of pleasing the wrong person

This isn’t about shutting people out. It’s about knowing who’s helping and who’s accidentally putting you at greater risk.

Let your friends check in on you. Let them be kind. Let them remind you who you are when it all feels overwhelming. But don’t let their voice override your own, or your team’s. And if they’re making you feel like your response needs to please them personally, that’s not support. That’s pressure.

Because when it all goes wrong, and it does, often, they won’t be the one dealing with the contracts, the lawyers, the media or the fallout… You will.