The psychology of cancel culture and symbolic self-completion

Defining cancel culture vs. justice

Muzamil opens the episode by anchoring the conversation: cancel culture feels more prevalent in recent times, especially after COVID. But before diving deeper, he and Ali distinguish between two things people often conflate. “That man committed a crime and the internet really went after him and that public pressure probably played a significant role in justice being served,” Ali explains, referencing Harvey Weinstein and the Me Too movement. That’s not cancel culture, they agree. That’s accountability for actual harm.

Cancel culture, as they define it here, is something different. It operates in moral gray areas and ideological differences. It’s the impulse to take someone’s entire life into account when they’ve said something the crowd disagrees with. Ali notes the need for clarity because people often use the term as a blanket, conflating both genuine justice and the more punitive aspects of online culture.

Cognitive dissonance and the need for consistency

Ali introduces cognitive dissonance as a core psychological driver. Humans need information in continuity; we dislike conflicting beliefs. If Muzamil is a figure you admire for standing up for good, and then you learn he’s working with the government, that conflicts with your image of him. To resolve the dissonance, you might decide his morals have shifted, or you attack him to restore consistency in your worldview.

This applies everywhere. A mental health professional who denies depression exists creates immediate cognitive dissonance in their audience. The listener has two options: change their values or assume the person’s morals have deteriorated. “That’s where a lot of cancel culture comes in,” Ali says. Protecting our internal story about who someone is becomes more important than considering complexity.

Symbolic self-completion: why we really attack

Muzamil wears a tungsten carbide ring on his middle finger. Ali notices and asks why. The ring, Muzamil explains, represents strength. This leads to symbolic self-completion theory: we display symbols to represent our ideal self, not our actual self. Nike doesn’t sell shoes; it sells the image of being Messi or Federer. Old Spice sells the idea of manhood.

“You’re effectively saying, so what Nike effectively says is, if you want to be like Messi, wear this shoe,” Muzamil reflects back. Exactly. And this principle is everywhere, Ali says. When someone says something that threatens your ideal self-image on Instagram, you use the comment button. You attack because the speech conflicts with what you’re trying to project. Conversely, content that reinforces your ideal self gets shared, bringing group cohesion: “I care about therapy, and I’m joining the in-group that supports therapy.”

This is why people at the center of a storm get attacked from both sides simultaneously. Both groups are signaling their own ideals, not necessarily defending or attacking the person. “Nobody cares about people. They always care about what that person represents,” Ali observes.

The offline-online boundary collapse

Muzamil raises a critical friction point. Offline, you wouldn’t walk up to someone and say, “I hate the way you dress.” There are social norms, hygiene, rules of engagement. But online, the same criticism gets repackaged as constructive feedback. “There are some social norms, there are some society hygiene that you follow, but when you go to digital, you find going to someone and saying, I don’t like the way that you dress up is constructive criticism,” Ali says. It’s not. It does nothing for the person except make them feel attacked.

He invokes a Mike Tyson quote (possibly misattributed): “All of you have gotten too used to disrespecting people and not getting punched in the face.” Online, there’s no physical consequence, no social friction. The barrier to cruelty drops to zero.

Desensitization and dark humor in Gen Z spaces

Muzamil describes a Facebook group of 14 to 18 year olds sharing some of the darkest, most disturbing memes he’s ever seen. The motorway incident in Pakistan, tragedy after tragedy, all punchlines. These were educated kids from private schools. In real life, he couldn’t imagine them being this crude. What’s happening?

Ali poses two research questions instead of answers. Is dark humor functioning as a coping mechanism for children desensitized to trauma, or is it making them more psychopathic? These kids have grown up with tablets and smartphones, exposed to APS attacks, terrorism, sexual violence, all on social media. They may be either processing trauma through humor or becoming numb to suffering.

He introduces the dark triad personality: narcissism, psychopathy, and Machiavellianism. Research suggests those high in these traits are more likely to enjoy dark humor, but correlation does not cause causation.

Facebook groups as countermeasures

Muzamil brings up Soul Sisters and Soul Brothers, two gender-based Facebook groups that created psychological safety. Women especially needed a space to rant without constant counter-arguments. Soul Sisters eventually became productive, and Soul Brothers emerged as a counter-space. Ali notes that these groups often moderate strictly, enforcing baseline gender equality understanding.

Why do they work? Group cohesion, anonymity removal, and economic support. When someone invests in helping you launch a business or supporting your family through crisis, you’re more likely to forgive ideological differences. “You’ve made an economy in which you’re ready to let go of your weak beliefs,” Ali says. There’s also less anonymity in groups: you know the person you’re criticizing might support your next venture.

The peace we’re not seeing

Near the end, Ali reminds Muzamil of something counterintuitive: despite all the darkness online, we’re living in one of the most peaceful times in human history. There’s less dying, less crime, less poverty than ever before. But social media amplifies crisis and conflict, making it feel apocalyptic.

This connects back to cancel culture itself. We’re more aware of injustice, and awareness is a step toward fixing it. But the medium through which we express that awareness can distort the response into something that harms the very people we’re trying to hold accountable.