I find myself living in a strange moment in history where access to information has convinced many people that they possess expertise. A few searches here and there, a skim of a couple of articles—which I’m fairly certain most people don’t read properly anyway, because let’s be honest: people don’t read for comprehension anymore. They read for validation. Or maybe they watch a short video explanation that very few people actually make it to the end of. Suddenly, people with the attention span of a houseplant speak with the same confidence as those who have spent years studying a subject.
Searching, it turns out, is not the same thing as understanding.
God forbid you tell them that real expertise has always required something more demanding than curiosity and a search engine. Historians spend years learning how to read primary sources, understand historical context, and interpret conflicting accounts. Physicians train for years before diagnosing even the most common conditions. Scientists spend decades learning the methods that allow them to distinguish correlation from causation. Writers spend years learning how to research, structure arguments, and communicate ideas clearly. Yet the internet has loudly encouraged a cultural shift where familiarity with information is mistaken for mastery of it.
I experienced a small version of this temerity recently. After my father passed away early last year, my body began reacting in ways I had never experienced before. Insomnia returned like an old acquaintance who never learned how to leave. Night sweats felt like waterboarding sessions conducted by my own paralysis demon. Crying outbursts appeared out of nowhere—sometimes in the middle of a Macy’s cosmetic department.
To be fair, some lipstick swatches are criminal.
I should also mention that I’m not normally a crier.
The loss of simple pleasures, the inability to function like the well-oiled Victorian steam train I had previously convinced myself I was—it all started to add up. Grief, as it turns out, doesn’t just live in the mind. It often manifests physically.
After running a few tests, my doctor concluded that I was dealing with anhedonic depression. The tests came back normal. Human, even. Once treatment began, the physical symptoms gradually disappeared. I can’t deny that my body and face changed during that time, but I’m almost back on track now.
Anyhoo.
During this period, one friend became absolutely convinced she knew what was happening. Her first diagnosis was perimenopause. When that theory didn’t quite stick, the diagnosis quickly pivoted to PCOS. Yes—PCOS, the magical word women have been using the last couple of years to explain every symptom and inconvenience under the sun. The interesting part is that I was already under medical care and had discussed everything with my doctor.
Now, before someone’s polyester panties twist themselves into a catastrophic knot, let me say this clearly: there is nothing wrong with caring about someone’s health or asking questions. Concern is human. But there is a difference between expressing concern and insisting on a diagnosis after someone has already told you they are comfortable with the care they are receiving. Eventually, I had to tell her to back off because subtle hints, polite deflection, and my most reserved and couth responses were apparently not getting through.
This is what the internet has produced: the confident amateur. Someone who has gathered enough fragments of information to feel authoritative, but not enough depth to understand the limits of their knowledge.
And frankly, I think this is where we’ve gone wrong culturally. Somewhere along the way, we decided it was impolite to tell people when they are simply out of their depth. Instead, we nod politely while someone with fifteen minutes of Google research explains medicine, history, economics, or whatever topic they discovered that afternoon. We replaced honesty with endless politeness.
But sometimes the problem isn’t a difference of opinion. Sometimes the problem is that someone is being stupid. Not cruelly stupid. Not maliciously stupid. Just confidently, aggressively uninformed. And occasionally that deserves to be called what it is.
Because there is a difference between curiosity and competence. The internet has made the first easier than ever and the second somehow rarer. Access to information is one of the greatest achievements of the modern world. We carry the sum of human knowledge in our pockets. Unfortunately, we also carry the illusion that skimming that knowledge somehow makes us experts.
The internet is a remarkable tool. It can help you find information in seconds and expose you to ideas you might never have encountered otherwise. What it cannot do is replace years of study, training, experience, and intellectual humility. Historians still study sources. Doctors still study medicine. Scientists still study data. Writers still study language and ideas. Google studies your search history so it can sell you magnesium supplements and hormone-balancing tea.
Curiosity is admirable. Asking questions is healthy. Suggesting possibilities out of concern is human. But when someone tells you they are already under professional care and comfortable with that care, the respectful response is not to double down on your internet diagnosis. The respectful response is to step back.
And occasionally—when someone refuses to step back and insists on lecturing others about subjects they clearly do not understand—it may be time to revive a lost social skill: telling people they are being stupid.
Politely, if possible. Directly, if necessary.
