Not long ago, a friend told me during a chat, “Normal people don’t comment anymore.” Maybe they’re right. Often, comment sections are filled with people who aren’t worth engaging with—those who just shout their beliefs, aren’t open to reason, or repeat scripted lines they didn’t even come up with themselves. Trying to talk to them is like throwing peas at a wall.
And yes, I often remind myself that jumping into comment wars is pointless. Online debates can spiral endlessly, rarely leading to real understanding. Usually, I just waste energy, get worked up, and end up realizing I spent my afternoon arguing with a stranger instead of doing something meaningful.
Still, sometimes I can’t help but respond. I dive into a debate or at least write, “I don’t agree with this.” Even though I know it probably won’t change the person’s mind, it feels important to say it.
I’m Not Writing for the Debater
I respond because I know who’s reading these comments. Not for the “debater” (if you can even call them that)—I gave up on them long ago—but for those silently scrolling, who see just how harsh the tone of public conversation has become.
I picture the sleep-deprived, already isolated mom who finally dares to say she’s tired and overwhelmed—and then reads a comment like, “People like that shouldn’t have kids.”
I see the teenager discovering they’re different from others, still figuring out what’s going on inside—and then facing a comment that says, “A biological dead end.”
I see those living with neurodiversity, trying to piece together their daily lives in a world that feels alien, only to have someone snap, “They’re just making excuses because they’re lazy.”
That’s when I can’t stay silent.
I don’t speak up because I think I can convince the closed-minded commenter. I do it because it’s important for others to see that not everyone agrees with harmful voices. I want that tired mom to know she’s not alone. I want that uncertain teen to see someone believes they’re valuable. I want neurodiverse readers to feel that not everyone sees them as making excuses—some approach them with acceptance.
That’s why I comment. Because silence can create the illusion that everyone agrees with hate. But they don’t. And if even one sentence helps someone feel less alone, it’s worth it.
I also hold onto another hope: that one day we’ll reclaim comment sections. That they won’t just be battlegrounds for hate but places for real conversations. That we’ll find the courage to share experiences, exchange insights, and connect—just as these platforms were meant to be used.
Maybe it’s an idealistic thought. Maybe it’s naive. But I believe that if enough of us speak up, if enough of us say that not only extreme, hurtful opinions exist, then maybe public discourse will take a new direction. And maybe then, normal people will feel it’s worth commenting again.
