curated by kay mckenzie

Harper’s Bazaar recently published an article arguing that Love Island USA contestant KC’s behavior reflected a larger conversation about misogyny. Whether you agrees with that conclusion or not, reading it left me thinking about something else entirely. This isn’t really about defending KC. It’s about how quickly we decide we know someone after watching only a few weeks of edited television.

When did reality TV become a psychological evaluation? Psychologists have long studied parasocial relationships, the one-sided connections we form with people we only know through media. The more we watch contestants laugh, cry, argue, and fall in love, the easier it becomes to believe we know exactly who they are. The reality, though, is that we don’t. We know the version producers choose to show us, not the complete person behind the edit.

That’s why so much of the conversation this season stood out to me. As the discussion unfolded online, I saw people describe KC as a narcissist, a misogynist, a manipulator, “red pill,” and even an abuser. Those aren’t casual words. They’re serious labels with real meaning and real consequences. There’s a difference between criticizing how someone handled a situation and deciding you know who they are based on an edited reality show.

After KC wasn’t chosen, he didn’t respond perfectly. But it also felt like some viewers expected him to move past being hurt almost immediately. Being disappointed isn’t the issue; it’s what someone chooses to do with that disappointment that matters. His reaction deserved discussion, but expecting anyone to work through their insecurities and emotionally mature in less than a month doesn’t always feel realistic. Most of us are still figuring ourselves out, but our mistakes aren’t filmed, edited, and broadcast to millions of people.

Reality television has always been messy. Shows like Jersey Shore, Flavor of Love, and I Love New York were built around conflict, emotional decisions, awkward moments, and people making mistakes. Contestants were criticized then too, but the conversation usually ended when the episode was over. Today, every scene can be clipped, replayed, dissected, and debated across social media within minutes. Reality television hasn’t changed nearly as much as the way we consume it. Social media has turned every disagreement into a public trial where viewers often feel confident enough to diagnose someone’s character after watching only fragments of their life.

Somewhere along the way, criticism turned into diagnosis. We stopped talking about behavior and started acting as though we knew people’s intentions, values, and character. To me, that’s the more important conversation, because it extends far beyond reality television. It’s about how easily we forget that every contestant is still a real person behind the version we’re shown and how comfortable we’ve become making permanent judgments based on a heavily edited story.

This isn’t about saying KC was right, and it isn’t about saying he was wrong. It’s about how comfortable we’ve become with piling onto someone we’ve never met. As a Black woman, watching that level of hate directed toward someone who looks like me genuinely made me uncomfortable. Not because I agreed with everything he did, but because it reminded me how quickly people stop seeing someone’s humanity once the internet decides they’re the villain.

Even brands joined the conversation, which raised another question for me. At what point should companies step back instead of adding to an online pile-on involving reality TV contestants? Public conversations are important, and brands have every right to speak on issues they care about. Still, there’s a difference between participating in a broader cultural discussion and contributing to the momentum of online outrage directed at an individual.

I wrote this because I wanted to challenge myself as a writer, but also because I believe this conversation is bigger than one contestant. We should absolutely hold people accountable, and we can disagree with how someone handled a situation without acting as though we suddenly know everything about them. Most of us have made mistakes we’d rather forget. The only difference is ours weren’t edited into a television show and put in front of millions of people to judge.

We don’t know KC.

We know an edit.

About the Author

Kay McKenzie is a multimedia journalist whose work focuses on lifestyle, sports, entertainment, and culture.

This article reflects my personal opinion and interpretation of publicly available media. It is not intended as a factual assessment of any contestant’s character or mental health.

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