Do the Good Deeds We Do Need Documentation to Be Real?

There was a comment left in response to something I wrote that has stayed with me—not because it engaged with what I said, but because it didn’t.

Instead, it escalated.

I responded to my friend’s comment on systems in power, and how people did not seem to care about women and children.

Another person jumped in, and they were angry.

I will not include the comment here, as it was deeply triggering. But at first glance, it read as urgency. As concern. As moral conviction.

But the longer I sat with it, the clearer it became:

This was not a conversation.

It was a demand.

A demand that I prove my care.
A demand that I account for suffering far beyond the scope of what I was speaking about.

A demand that my voice only holds value if it expands to include everything, everywhere, all at once.

And if it does not?

Then my silence is framed as agreement.
As complicity.
As moral failure.

But that logic doesn’t hold.

Because not speaking on something publicly does not mean someone does not care about it.
It does not mean they are unaware.
And it certainly does not mean they support harm.

It may mean something far more human.

It may mean they are speaking from where they are.

There is a growing expectation—especially in public spaces—that care must be visible to be real.

That if you are not posting, sharing, amplifying, or speaking on an issue, then your silence is suspicious.

But this way of thinking turns something meaningful into something performative.

It asks people to demonstrate their morality, rather than live it.

And in doing so, it creates a kind of pressure that is both unrealistic and unsustainable.

Because no one can speak on everything.

No one can carry the weight of every global issue in every moment.

And not everyone has the same capacity, knowledge, safety, or platform to do so.

I have friends in the LGBTQIA+ community. I have friends with chronic illness.

Some of them cannot attend marches. Some of them cannot safely make themselves visible. Some of them are navigating bodies and circumstances that limit how they show up in the world.

That does not mean they do not care.

It means they are participating in ways that are available to them.

This is where intersectionality matters—not as a concept, but as a lived reality.

Not every body can do the same thing.

Not every voice can take the same risks.

And expecting uniform participation ignores the very real differences in safety, access, and ability.

There is also something else that often goes unspoken.

Not everyone can speak freely without consequence.

For me, platforms like Substack are public.

What I say exists in a space that can be seen, interpreted, and connected back to my professional life. I am, in many ways, the face of a company. That carries responsibility—but it also carries limitation.

You can care deeply about injustice and still need to protect your livelihood.

You can hold strong values and still choose when and how to express them.

Because if you lose your stability, your ability to function, your ability to support yourself—you limit your capacity to do anything at all.

That is not apathy.

That is reality.

There is a quiet assumption in comments like the one I received:

That if care is not visible, it does not exist.

But how would anyone know what another person does behind the scenes?

How would they know if someone is donating, volunteering, supporting, or advocating in ways that are not posted, not documented, not shared?

They wouldn’t.

And yet, the judgment is made anyway.

This is where the line between genuine advocacy and performative activism begins to blur.

Because when the expectation becomes “show us, or it doesn’t count,” we shift the focus away from impact—and toward appearance.

We begin to measure care not by what is done, but by what is seen.

This didn’t start overnight.

In the early days of social media, there was already a shift happening.

Relationships became “official” only once they were posted.
Experiences became more real once they were shared.
Identity itself became something to display.

Over time, that expectation expanded.

From relationships, to success.
From success, to happiness.
And now, to morality.

Now, there is a quiet pressure to prove that you care.

To show it.
To document it.
To make it visible.

And if you don’t?

Then questions arise.

Doubt.
Suspicion.
Accusation.

But reality does not require an audience.

Doing something good does not become more meaningful because it is witnessed.

And caring about something does not become more valid because it is displayed.

In fact, some of the most meaningful actions happen quietly.

Without recognition.
Without performance.
Without the need to be seen.

So when someone tells me that my silence is a condemnation—that my lack of public commentary on every global issue somehow equates to support of harm—I don’t accept that premise.

Not because those issues don’t matter.

But because care is not measured that way.

Not honestly.

Not fully.

And not in a way that respects the complexity of being human.

As a woman, it reminds me of something important.

To continue to raise my voice when I choose to.
To speak clearly, and with intention.
To take up space in the conversations that matter to me.

Not because I need to prove anything.

But because my voice has weight—whether it is seen by everyone or not.

And impact is not always loud.

Sometimes, it is quiet.
Sometimes, it is unseen.
But it is still real.

There are also many ways to show up that do not involve being seen.

Not everyone can attend marches.
Not everyone can protest publicly.
Not everyone can risk visibility in the same way.

But that does not mean they are not participating.

Support can look like donating, quietly and consistently.
It can look like volunteering time or skills where they are needed.
It can look like checking in on people in your own community.
It can look like educating yourself, having conversations, and making choices in your daily life that reflect your values.

Sometimes it looks like offering help without announcing it.
Sometimes it looks like protecting your own stability so you can continue to contribute over time.

None of these things require an audience.

And none of them are less meaningful because they are not performed.

For myself, there are many charities in Cleveland that support global initiatives—organizations that work directly to help young girls and mothers in vulnerable situations.

That is one way I can contribute.

Not everything I care about is posted.
Not everything I support is visible.

But that does not make it less real.

It simply means that my care, like many others’, exists both publicly and privately—in ways that don’t always need to be announced to be meaningful.

And yet, there is this growing need to make those things visible.

It didn’t start with activism. It started much earlier—when the digital world began shaping how we defined what was real. In the early 2000s, it felt almost necessary for a business to have a website, then a Facebook page, then an Instagram. Without it, there was a quiet question of legitimacy. Were you established? Were you credible? Were you even real?

That same expectation slowly expanded beyond businesses.

It moved into our relationships. Our milestones. Our identities.

And now, in many ways, it has moved into our values.

There is a subtle pressure to show what we believe, to document what we support, to make our care visible—because without that visibility, it can feel as though it doesn’t count.

And then it expanded into something even more personal—dating.

There was a time when a relationship was defined by the people in it. By how they showed up for each other, privately and consistently.

Then, slowly, it became something else.

“Oh, he doesn’t post you? He must not be serious.”
“If it’s not public, is it even real?”

What once existed between two people began to require an audience.

Visibility became proof.
And proof became validation.

What has become so normalized, too normalized, is the expectation that we can speak to strangers online as if we know them.

To judge them.
To assign intent.
To make assumptions about what they do, what they care about, and what they contribute.

He didn’t know me.
He didn’t know my work, my actions, or the ways I may already be involved behind the scenes.

And yet, he felt certain enough to accuse, to condemn, to define my silence as complicity.

That certainty says less about me—and more about the culture that allows us to believe we can understand someone’s entire life from a single post.

But real people are more than that.

They are more than what they choose to share.
More than what they say in a moment.
More than what others can see.

And care—real care—is not always loud, not always public, and not always visible.

But it is still real.

My hope is that we can return to something simple: getting to know a person before judging them.

The internet will always have its noise. There will always be people who speak without understanding, who assume, who react instead of listen.

But that does not have to define how we engage with each other.

Day by day, we can choose something different.

We can choose to be more patient.
More open.
More willing to listen before we decide what something means.

Because when we do that—when we meet each other with open hearts and open minds—we make the world just a little bit kinder.