humans never change
connections between public executions and someone getting ‘cancelled’
Humans have always loved a spectacle, from the blood-soaked cobblestones beneath the guillotine to the sterile glow of a trending hashtag. The faces may change, the languages may evolve, the props may shift from axes to iPhones, but the primal thrill we get from seeing someone fall remains chillingly constant. What passed for justice in the 18th century was often little more than an elaborate theatre of shame. Today, the gallows have been replaced with screens, the scaffold with the quote tweet, and the cheering crowds with retweets and likes. The core truth remains: humans never really change. We are creatures of pattern, of predictable cruelty, who mask our instincts with civility, supposed dignity, professionalism, and the illusion of progress.
In the late Middle Ages, public executions were among the most anticipated events in many European cities. Crowds would gather hours, sometimes days, in advance to secure a good view. Children were brought along, vendors sold snacks, and the air buzzed with anticipation. This was not simply justice being served; it was entertainment, moral instruction, and collective catharsis wrapped into one bloody performance. The condemned were not only being punished; they were being paraded. Their shame, fear, and final moments become a communal experience, not out of compassion, but out of a sick need to feel morally superior. The crowd believed in the righteousness of their scorn. Watching someone else fall, they’re reaffirmed in their place in the social hierarchy: “I may be poor, but I’m not a thief. I may sin, but I haven’t sinned like that.” Sound familiar? Replace the scaffold with a trending tab. Replace the shouts of “Hang him!” with “#Accountability.” The same psychological mechanism is at play: watching someone’s downfall reminds us we’re safe.
I want to make it clear that my suggestion that cancel culture is the modern equivalent of public execution isn’t to diminish real accountability. There are many people who should be confronted for their harmful behaviour. But the performative, gleeful mob energy that fuels cancel culture isn’t really about justice. It’s about ritual humiliation. It’s about spectacle. It’s about confirming to ourselves and our social groups that we are morally correct by collectively targeting them. When someone is “cancelled,” rarely do we see genuine engagement with their actions or humanity. Instead, we see pile-ons. We see context ripped away. We see the same cruel joy that once filled execution squares, except now it’s digital. The hashtags, the think pieces, the sarcastic memes; these are our drum rolls. We bring our popcorn, not our principles. I truly believe humans don’t change. We just rebrand our instincts to make them more palatable.
This inability or refusal to evolve isn’t limited to our cultural rituals. It lives inside our personal lives, relationships, and workplaces. The bully who mocked you for your accent in school is now the manager who speaks over you in meetings. The queen bee who spread rumours in high school is now the office gossip whispering career-killing innuendos behind the HR department’s back. They’ve traded playgrounds for conference rooms, uniforms for power suits, but the behaviour remains hauntingly the same. Why? Because most people don’t change. They just grow up. We cling to the myth of maturity like a life raft, convinced that age brings wisdom, that time refines character. But age is no alchemist. If someone was cruel at 18, they will likely be cruel at 40 — only better at hiding it. Their tools become subtler, their power greater, but the root is unchanged. The desire to dominate, ridicule, and climb over others to soothe one’s insecurity are traits seeded early and often remain deeply entrenched.
People only truly change when forced to reckon with themselves. A near-death experience. The loss of a loved one. A devastating breakup. A rock-bottom moment that shatters the mirror and makes them confront the undistorted truth: I am not who I thought I was. Until then, we are actors reading the same lines with different props.
Human beings, for all our delusions of complexity, are oddly predictable. We fall into archetypes. We make the same mistakes. We worship the same false gods—fame, status, purity, elitism, power—generation after generation. The methods evolve, and the masks become more sophisticated, but the impulses remain. Take a moment to scroll through social media during a public scandal. What you’ll witness is not accountability, learning or redemption. What you’ll see is choreography. An online flash mob of righteousness. A rush to dunk, ridicule and remind the world that we are good and they are not. The technology is new. The dance is ancient. We love and are invested in downfall stories because we believe we’re immune. We sit in judgement because it’s easier than self-reflection. We forget that the same energy we use to condemn others will one day be used to destroy us. There’s always another execution.
We like to think we’ve evolved beyond the brutality of the past. We point to modern laws, therapy, human rights, and anti-bullying policies, and believe we are better. But these are scaffolds around a building that remains the same. Polished, yes. But structurally unchanged. We mistake etiquette for empathy. We confuse civility with compassion. Real change requires transformation of the inner self, not just a costume. A man who once laughed at the poor now writes op-eds about “economic anxiety.” A woman who once mocked the disabled now tweets performative threads about accessibility. They’ve learned the language of morality, but not its practice. We’ve traded stocks in the marketplace of shame, modernised our cruelty, and franchised our finger-pointing. The mob is now algorithmically enhanced. And the scary part? We still love it. We still enjoy it. We still feel good when we see someone we don’t like fall.
But I guess one of the greatest dangers of making mistakes or, even more so, of truly changing, is that no matter how sincere your growth is, there will always be people who cling to your past like it’s their moral compass. It’s important, of course, to acknowledge the harm done and centre the voices of those who were hurt. But when the same missteps are constantly dredged up, not to facilitate healing but to signal righteousness or relive the power of public condemnation, it becomes less about justice and more about ego. People weaponise someone’s former self to perform virtue and stay relevant in a conversation that should have already shifted. That’s not accountability, it’s immaturity cloaked in moral high ground. Holding someone hostage to their past when they’ve done the painful work of change doesn’t uplift victims; it simply reveals a collective addiction to shaming, dressed up as integrity.
There is a glimmer of hope in all this. Real change does happen, but not easily. It doesn’t come from TED talks or LinkedIn platitudes. It comes from a crisis. From collapse. From hitting emotional or moral rock bottom. It is only when people sit down with themselves and reassemble the pieces of their life into something new. That’s when the bully becomes an advocate. The cruel mother becomes gentle. The arrogant teacher becomes humble. These moments are rare and costly but real. They are the only exception to the rule. The rest of us, without intervention (external or internal), carry our patterns like baggage from childhood to boardroom to grave.
Humans never change. Not at their core. We just trade in gallows for gossip, nooses for notifications. The same crowd that once gathered for beheadings now logs on to “drag” and “doxx” someone. The same kids who laughed at you in school become the colleagues who sabotage your promotion. We are the same animal, dressed in polyester. And so, we must ask: What are we performing? And for whom? If our instincts are so enduring, can we ever be more than just a smarter, shinier version of the same old cruelty? Or a better question: Will we ever stop being the crowd? Because as long as there is someone to fall, there will be someone ready to watch. And cheer.
“People never change. They just become more of who they really are.” — Dr. Gregory House
Tell me about it - language of morality, but not the practice, downfall of folks they don't like, etc. The seat of the scornful is the joyful realm of tyrants and their henchmen, whose vicious intents are hidden behind a facade of collegiality.
fantastic as always xx