There was a time when public discourse meant dialogue, not destruction. People with differing opinions could sit at the same table, engage in passionate conversation, and walk away without wounds. Today, that feels like ancient history—perhaps as ancient as the Roman Colosseum.

In ancient Rome, thousands gathered under the scorching sun to watch men fight to the death. It was brutal, primal—and wildly popular. Gladiators, criminals, and slaves were paraded before roaring crowds who demanded blood for entertainment. The more violent, the louder the cheers.

Fast forward two millennia, and we’re still gathering—just on different platforms. Twitter, YouTube, cable news, TikTok, even once-neutral forums like town halls or school board meetings—these have become our modern coliseums. The weapons have changed, but the goal is eerily similar: destroy the opponent and win the crowd.

We are living in the age of performative outrage. Civil conversation has been replaced by public shaming, cancellation, and polarization. Debates are no longer about exchanging ideas—they’re about racking up views, likes, and shares. We’re not here to learn; we’re here to cheer. Or jeer.

And like the Roman crowds, we’re complicit.

A political debate turns personal? We clip it and post it. A celebrity misspeaks? We jump on the bandwagon. A viral moment of someone being confronted, cornered, or exposed? We devour it like bread and circuses. The more dramatic, the better.

Who benefits from this culture of outrage? Media networks do. Influencers do. Politicians who thrive on division do. But the public? We’re being fed fast food for the brain—easy to consume, low in substance, and ultimately harmful.

The shift didn’t happen overnight. The seeds were planted with the rise of reality TV, where drama trumped truth. Then came social media, which rewarded extremes and punished nuance. Suddenly, everyone had a platform—but not everyone had empathy. What mattered was attention, not accuracy.

Algorithms now decide what we see. And those algorithms are fueled by engagement. And what drives engagement? Anger. Outrage. Conflict. The more upset we are, the more we click. The more we click, the more money someone else makes.

This creates a vicious cycle: we’re fed content designed to upset us, and we respond in kind. Over time, we lose the ability to differentiate between valid criticism and personal attack, between healthy debate and public humiliation.

This isn’t just a media issue—it’s a societal one.

Look at how we treat people who make mistakes. There’s no room for growth or redemption. One wrong word, one controversial take, and it’s over. Fired. Unfollowed. Doxxed. Humiliated. Not because of what they did, but because we crave a spectacle. We crave the fall.

And in many ways, that’s what worries me most. That we, as a society, now measure value by how loudly someone is cheered—or booed. That our moral compass has been replaced by trending hashtags. That we no longer seek truth, only drama.

What makes the Roman comparison more chilling is how normalized it all feels. Watching someone get metaphorically “torn apart” on live TV or social media doesn’t shock us anymore. In fact, we expect it. We tune in for it.

We’ve become addicted to outrage. And like any addiction, it has consequences.

Relationships fracture. Communities split. Empathy fades. The idea that people can disagree and still respect each other? That seems quaint—almost naïve.

So, what’s the solution? Do we abandon social media? Turn off the TV? Withdraw from public life?

Not necessarily.

The answer lies not in isolation but in intention. We must become more conscious consumers of information. Ask ourselves: Is this teaching me something—or simply triggering me? Am I watching because I care—or because I crave chaos?

We also need to reclaim the lost art of conversation. Not just shouting matches disguised as debates, but actual dialogue. Listening. Challenging ideas without attacking identities. Disagreeing without dehumanizing.

And most importantly, we must remember that behind every viral clip, every tweet, every soundbite—is a human being. Imperfect. Flawed. Just like us.

The Roman Colosseum eventually fell into ruin. Historians look back on it as a symbol of both grandeur and barbarism. My fear is that future generations will look back on our age and ask: Why did they cheer so loudly while tearing each other apart?

We still have time to change course.

But first, we have to admit that we’ve become the crowd.

And the crowd can be cruel.

Unless we choose to be better.