Retaliation or Preparation: What We Reach for When We’re Hurt

The message came in early one morning, before the sun had fully come up above Littleton. My coffee was still too hot to drink, and the house was quiet in that rare, in-between hour when the world hasn’t quite decided to wake. The subject line read simply: Need help with a situation.

I opened it, expecting something routine—maybe a small business owner struggling with online reviews, or someone asking how to handle a social media comment that had gotten out of hand. Instead, it began with a mother’s fear.

Her teenage daughter had been falsely reported to Instagram for child exploitation and trafficking. Since school began, the reports had kept coming, one after another. “We’d like to find out who’s doing this,” she wrote, “and hold this person accountable.”

I could almost feel her heartbeat through the screen—part fury, part desperation. The kind of energy that comes from wanting to protect someone you love and realizing you don’t know how.

I wrote back gently. I told her that if her goal was to uncover who was filing the reports, that wasn’t something I could help with. But if what she wanted was to protect her daughter’s presence online—to build her digital safety and confidence moving forward—that was work we could absolutely do together.

I explained the process, sent the links to schedule and pay, and hit “send.”

Her reply came minutes later. She thanked me for my time, but said she wasn’t looking for that kind of support. She wanted an attorney. Someone who could pursue legal action, subpoena Instagram, and “nip it in the bud.”

I read her email twice. Then a third time.

My first response was judgment. I could feel it rising like heat in my chest. How could a parent, I thought, focus on retaliation rather than preparing her child for the realities of life online? How could she not see the difference between chasing justice and building resilience?

But almost as soon as the thought formed, another followed: If that were your child, what would you want?

I took a long sip of coffee and sat with that question.

In a former chapter of my life, before North of Normal and before I began consulting here in the North Country, I worked as an operations manager for a national online reputation management firm. It was my job to sit in the middle of people’s worst moments—the point when something they thought was private had spilled into public view.

Doctors, business owners, CEOs, teachers, clergy. People who had built entire lives on credibility and trust, suddenly watching that trust unravel with a few clicks. Many of them had already tried retaliation. They’d hired lawyers. Sent threatening letters. Fired back on forums or Facebook. And every time, it backfired.

Retaliation might quiet the noise for a moment, but it doesn’t change the story that’s being told—it only fuels it. What they really needed, though most couldn’t see it yet, was preparation. A foundation built before the crisis came.

I saw it again and again. The people who had spent years cultivating an authentic online presence—writing their own narratives, building community, showing up consistently—weathered the storms far better than those who hadn’t. When falsehoods appeared, there was context to weigh them against. Their names weren’t blank slates; they were stories already rooted in truth.

But those who had ignored their online selves—who had avoided showing up, or had hidden behind polished but hollow personas—found themselves at the mercy of whatever version of them the internet decided to tell. One bad review, one vindictive post, one out-of-context video, and suddenly they were defined by a stranger’s narrative.

I’ll never forget the surgeon who called in tears after a false accusation went viral, or the CEO who watched her team’s faith dissolve overnight because of a rumor she couldn’t trace. I remember a small business, family-run for three generations, losing half its customers after a coordinated review attack. They hadn’t done anything wrong, but retaliation couldn’t fix what preparation might have prevented.

At the core of all of it was powerlessness.

That’s what retaliation offers—a fleeting illusion of control in exchange for deeper vulnerability.

I know that feeling firsthand.

When I was a teenager, growing up in several countries, I was sheltered in ways that were both protective and limiting. We were a tight-knit Christian family. I had a happy childhood—warm memories, laughter, love—but there were gaps in the kind of preparation that matters later. We didn’t talk much about the world beyond our walls, or the risks and choices that come with growing up, or what it meant to create a life in public view.

By the time I graduated, I was naive about what it meant to live online.

I still remember the day I learned that someone had created a fake dating profile using my photo. Only in this version, I wasn’t a woman. I was a man.

The world seemed to tilt. My face flushed hot, my heart dropped straight into my stomach. An acquaintance had seen the profile and thought it was funny enough to mention casually, as if it were gossip. But to me, it felt like being exposed—like losing ownership of my own name.

I deleted everything. Every account, every trace online. I started dreading being seen in public. I thought if I vanished, I could be safe. But in truth, I was punishing myself for someone else’s cruelty. Retaliation in disguise.

It took years to find my voice again—to understand that the answer wasn’t disappearance, but preparation. Building something steady and authentic enough that no imposter could rewrite it.

So when I read that mother’s message, I recognized both of us in it. Her instinct to retaliate, my former instinct to hide. Both rooted in fear.

Fear of losing control of the story.

But control isn’t the same as clarity. One is reactive; the other is intentional. Control says, I must silence this. Clarity says, I’ll speak what’s true and let it stand.

That, to me, is the difference between retaliation and preparation.

Preparation doesn’t mean expecting the worst—it means tending to what you can influence before the storm hits. It’s what we do when we plant our gardens even knowing the frost will come, or when we build trust in our neighbors long before we need to call on them. It’s slow work, quiet work. But it lasts.

When I closed my laptop that morning, I looked out the window toward Main Street. The sky over Littleton was pale blue, just starting to blush with sunlight. People were beginning to stir—the postal workers, the early commuters, the shop owners unlocking their doors. Life moving forward, as it always does.

Somewhere out there, a mother was still trying to find justice. Somewhere, a daughter was just trying to be a kid. And here I was, sitting with my own reminder that we can’t always control what others say or do—but we can shape what’s real, and we can keep tending to that truth.

Retaliation is fear-based. It burns fast and hot, leaving ash behind.

Preparation, though—it builds armor from the inside out. Not the kind that makes us cold and unfeeling, but the kind that makes us ready.

We prepare by knowing who we are, by showing up consistently, and by choosing steadiness over spectacle. And when the world misrepresents us—and it will, in ways big and small—that preparation becomes the quiet proof of our integrity.

So this week, I find myself wondering: when harm comes knocking, will we spend our energy fighting shadows, or strengthening the light that tells our real story?

Whatever your answer, I hope it comes from stillness, not fear. The world will always have its noise and chaos, but you don’t have to join the chorus. Sometimes the bravest thing we can do is keep preparing quietly for a life built on truth.

-Amanda