one day PR won’t just be damage control in a designer suit,

a photo op with a forgiveness filter.

the art of writing apology in 12 point helvetica bold,

like empathy in a swag bag.

we are rapidly approaching a time when the only public relations strategy we need

is about survival

and connection.

and the kind of truth that can’t be shared in bullet points

because it’s so visceral and real and shattering and beautiful and awful that it takes up entire city blocks.

we’re redrafting the definition of public relations now.

on napkins and subway walls,

on hearts and scars and palms and protest posters.

and we’re signing it with eye contact.

and sidewalk nods.

trembling yeses,

breathless apologies,

midnight voicemails,

front porch hugs,

shared umbrellas,

unfiltered grief,

and overdue forgiveness.

soon, we won’t care about optics.

or quarterly earnings.

or exposing billion-dollar secrets on a jumbotron.

the art of saying “we’re deeply committed to accountability”,

while quietly updating our LinkedIn bio and scrubbing the internet like it’s a crime scene –

will be a lost art.

we’ll care about public relations as the art of holding each other,

when we’re caught being flawed and human in a system that teaches us to hide these pieces of our humanity because these threads between our vulnerabilities that turn every broken thing into a bridge –

don’t trend anywhere.

ah, but they do trend.

in the bones of the people who think they’re the only mistake God ever made.

in the trembling voice of a mother rehearsing “I’m fine” in her rearview mirror.

in the sweat-slick palms of a boy Googling:

“how to make friends without sounding desperate.”

in the inbox flooded with drafts you’re not brave enough to send

in the tattoo etched across a wrist on a body where shame used to live before it learned how to spell resilience.

in the girl who reads the comments even when she swears she won’t,

just to confirm:

she’s still unwanted, in seven different font styles.

in every body that’s ever prayed to be less itself so the world would treat it better.

we call it a scandal.

we call it juicy.

we call it karma.

but what we don’t call it

is sad.

because sadness doesn’t sell.

misery does.

we bask in other people’s misery like moths orbiting a porch light,

burning ourselves for the momentary glow.

we hunger for suffering that isn’t ours, mistaking the burn for belonging.

we roast it.

we meme it.

we forget that the public we’re supposed to relate to

is made of people

who bleed when you laugh.

we throw parties

when someone’s dignity folds –

streamers made of screenshots,

balloons filled with viral tweets that float higher, the sadder they are.

we call it accountability.

when we mean entertainment.

shame is our favorite soap opera

because watching someone else break

makes the cracks in us feel like design.

we scroll for someone worse

to make our ruin feel rehearsed.

we plant seeds of ridicule

and wonder why our gardens

only grow thorns.

we dress cruelty in compassion’s clothes, hold it up like a trophy and say,

“we’re just trying to do better,”

while tweeting a meme that slaps someone’s soul for the sake of the almighty algorithm.

we’ve mistaken empathy for exposure, exchanged tenderness for telescopes, compassion for clout in the cynic’s club

thinking belonging is earned by pointing fingers at the flames. 

it’s all paradox—

we break people

to prove how whole we are.

we light matches to amplify someone’s fire

then blame them when everything burns.

let it burn.

let our old ways go up in smoke like paper promises 

so that radical “public relations” can be reclaimed as a term for how we hold each other when the world breaks open.

when we feel scared or sad or hurt or like we can’t possibly go on in a world that demands so much of us

and sometimes gives so little back.

so that, more often, we say to one another,

“I see you,”

instead of

“I see your downfall trending.”

so our pain is not constantly dissected by strangers who keep their own heartbreak on mute

so that we might unapologetically put out personal press releases that say:

“I’m committed to the radical act of loving people.”

not just after the scandal, the mistakes, the divorce, the pain, the bankruptcy, the coming out.

but because of them.

I’m committed to relating to the public like you are my people.

because. you. are.

and if I ever catch you on a kiss cam – with someone the world says you shouldn’t be kissing?

please.

don’t worry.

I won’t write a headline.

I’ll write a poem.