When Podcasts Turn Predatory

There was a time when the damage was contained to the glossy tabloids lined up at the grocery store checkout. We all remember them—blurred photos, sensational headlines, and fabricated scandals about people we’d never meet. They thrived on whispers and half‑truths. Back then, we could roll our eyes, toss the magazine back on the rack, and walk away.

But today, the reach of exploitation has gone digital. And it isn’t confined to a magazine aisle anymore. Podcasts—those intimate conversations we carry in our pockets—have become one of the most powerful storytelling mediums in the world. Unfortunately, with that power has come a dark side. Some creators have turned their platforms into modern-day tabloids, chasing clicks, downloads, and ad revenue at the expense of real human beings.

I believe in the power of storytelling. I’ve dedicated my life to it—giving voice to the missing, the murdered, and the overlooked. When done with integrity, podcasts can be a force for good: sharing truths, educating communities, and inspiring action. But I’ve watched too many creators cross that line from storytelling into spectacle. It isn’t just in the true crime space, though that’s where I see the most harm. It’s also in gossip-driven pop culture podcasts, influencer “tea” shows, and even some lifestyle and wellness podcasts that cloak speculation in casual conversation. They toss out rumors about public figures, private citizens, or trending victims without fact‑checking, without compassion, and without regard for the damage that follows. The tone is often light, almost playful—until you remember they’re talking about real lives, real families, real pain.

And then come the trolls. If you’ve never been targeted by online trolls, it’s hard to explain the weight of it. It’s not just a few rude comments. It’s relentless. It’s invasive. It’s designed to break you down. Unethical podcasters often unleash their followers—intentionally or not—onto the people they discuss. They name names, point fingers, stir outrage, and then step back as their audiences swarm. Trolls send private messages to grieving parents, accusing them of crimes they didn’t commit. They pick apart a victim’s past and post cruel memes about it. They stalk social media accounts, leave threatening voicemails, and fill inboxes with hate. It is harassment disguised as engagement. I’ve lived it. I’ve watched others endure it—mothers of missing children, families of unsolved homicide victims, even fellow advocates. And the truth is, the internet never forgets. Once those accusations, those lies, those twisted narratives are out there, they take on a life of their own.

It would be easy to say this is just a problem in the true crime genre. But that’s not true. Look at the wave of podcasts built on gossip: the celebrity rumor mills, the “inside scoop” shows on relationships and scandals, the ones that dissect marriages, careers, and even deaths for sport. They don’t call themselves tabloid shows, but that’s exactly what they’ve become—digital tabloids with microphones instead of printing presses. Even in niches like business or wellness, there are hosts who build an audience by attacking others, sharing “exposés” that are nothing more than half‑truths or outright fabrications. They justify it as commentary, as entertainment. But when someone’s reputation is destroyed or their safety is threatened, where is the accountability?

There’s a reason ethical journalism has stood the test of time. Its guiding principles are clear and non‑negotiable: seek the truth and report it; minimize harm; act independently; and be accountable and transparent. Facts first, always. Verify before you publish. Show compassion for those affected by tragedy. Avoid sensationalism. Don’t trade accuracy for influence or profit. Own your mistakes, correct them, and explain your methods. When podcasters ignore these principles, they are not journalists—they are entertainers, often profiting off someone else’s trauma. When they embrace these principles, they have the potential to change lives, solve crimes, and bring dignity to stories long ignored.

The damage isn’t abstract. It’s deeply personal and often irreversible. Think of Gabby Petito’s family, who were subjected to online hate and conspiracies even as they were grieving. Think of private citizens thrust into the spotlight by a podcast host who valued virality over verification. These aren’t headlines. They are human beings navigating grief and trauma in real time while strangers debate their character for entertainment.

And if we needed a chilling reminder of how little accountability there is in this space, consider this: one of the most infamous disgraced reporters in modern history—someone who once shattered the credibility of a national newsroom through fabricated stories—has launched a podcast. That is frightening. It shows how easily those with a history of deception can step into this unregulated landscape and rebrand themselves as trusted voices.

I’ve spent years fighting for justice—for the missing, the murdered, and the unheard. But some days, the biggest fight isn’t just against the unknown perpetrator or the cold case file. It’s against a culture that rewards exploitation, that feeds on controversy without care for who it harms. Podcasters and creators hold incredible power. When they use it to educate, to comfort, to advocate, the impact can be profound. But when they choose to exploit instead, they are no better than the tabloids we used to shake our heads at—except now the reach is wider, the rumors travel faster, and the trolls hit harder.

If you’re a creator, remember: every story you tell is about someone’s child, someone’s parent, someone’s friend. Choose integrity over shock value. Verify before you amplify. And if you don’t know the whole story, don’t pretend you do. If you’re a listener, remember: you hold power too. Pay attention to the ethics of the shows you support. Ask yourself who is being harmed by this content. Refuse to reward exploitation with your downloads and shares.

Because behind every story are real people—just like you, just like me. And they deserve more than to become fodder for someone else’s entertainment. Some stories matter too much to be twisted for clicks. Let’s hold each other—and our storytellers—to a higher standard.