The Ethics We Owe Each Other

As someone who has spent years working alongside victims' families, searching for the missing, and advocating for justice in unsolved cases, I’ve watched the true crime genre evolve—and, at times, unravel. What once felt like a powerful tool for awareness and change has, in many ways, become something else entirely.

Too often now, true crime podcasts aren’t about truth at all.
They’re about clicks. About sensationalism. About shock value.

And that’s dangerous.

Because when you speak about real people—about murdered daughters, vanished sons, broken families—you carry a responsibility. These aren’t just cases to dissect in front of a microphone. They are lives. They are pain. They are unspeakable losses that still bleed, no matter how many years have passed.

When you get it wrong—when you twist facts for entertainment, speculate without evidence, or chase ratings over accuracy—you don’t just fail as a storyteller. You cause real harm.

I’ve seen it happen. Families retraumatized by false narratives. Innocent people thrown under the bus for a "hot take." Survivors having to relive their trauma while strangers debate their lives like it’s some kind of game.

I’ve spoken with mothers who begged podcasters to take down damaging content—only to be ignored. I’ve watched grieving families be reduced to characters. And I’ve seen misinformation spread so widely it derails actual investigations.

True crime should never be about exploiting pain for profit. It should be about giving voice to the voiceless. About exposing injustice. About bringing clarity to chaos, and—when possible—closure.

But this conversation doesn’t stop with podcasts.

Because even outside of the true crime genre, integrity in reporting and advocacy matters.

There are people in this space—advocates, journalists, creators—who scream from the rooftops about how ethical they are, while using their platforms to target and abuse others doing the same work. And I have to ask:

Is it ethical to harass or defame another advocate just because you believe you’re “more ethical” than they are?
Is it justice to elevate your voice by silencing someone else’s?

Integrity isn’t about who shouts the loudest. It’s about who does the work with honesty, humility, and respect—even when no one’s watching.

And yes—this applies to victim’s families too.

I know this will be hard to hear. But it must be said.

Grief does not grant permission to harm others.
Loss—no matter how heartbreaking—does not excuse cruelty.
Being a victim’s sister or mother does not give someone the right to lie, harass, or slander others under the guise of seeking justice.

I say this with compassion: I have stood beside families in their darkest hours. I’ve cried with mothers at gravesites. I’ve walked through woods searching for the missing. I know how deep the pain goes. But pain does not erase accountability.

If we want the world to take our advocacy seriously, we must all be willing to hold ourselves to the same ethical standards we demand of others. That includes podcasters. That includes reporters. That includes victims' families. That includes me.

Because this space is already heavy with trauma.
We don’t need to make it heavier with hate, ego, and unchecked rage.

If you're going to tell stories about real people—missing, murdered, abused—you must be willing to carry the weight of that responsibility. Do the work. Get it right. And walk humbly.

Because getting it wrong doesn’t just damage your credibility.
It damages people who are already living in the aftermath of the unimaginable.

And they deserve better than that.