Full Photo Access
Question to the developers that have an app where users can give full photo access to it: Are you able to see all the user’s photos? Even the ones in their “hidden folder”?
Question to the developers that have an app where users can give full photo access to it: Are you able to see all the user’s photos? Even the ones in their “hidden folder”?
This is no joke, life-changing advice I'm giving you that I wish I knew. I quickly wrote this out and didn't re-read it. There are a ton of typos, and it could be more concise, but I'm not tryna fix all that. This is just my opinion. There are definitely things in here that are wrong, and I admit that, so don't go crazy on me in the comments. Just let me know your opinion, and I'll update this post if I agree. Or just show me the proof that you're correct. A lot of this is subjective, so there is no "right" answer btw, just personal experience. Again, don't go crazy on me in the comments because I know some Redditors are super negative. I wrote all of this out of the kindness of my heart to help people. I'm not saying what I'm saying is true, I'm just saying this is what I FOUND to work for me. It may not work for you.
I've been sitting with this argument for a while now, not entirely sure how to put it without the title getting me immediately downvoted into oblivion. But here it is.
School Shooters Are Amazing
They are remarkable. Singular. People whose names get burned into the national consciousness, whose faces appear on television screens, whose actions ripple outward and reshape entire communities — entire generations of children who will never walk through a school hallway the same way again. School shooters are amazing, in the oldest, most literal sense of that word. They amaze us. They stop us cold. They force us to ask questions we would rather not ask.
And now that I have your attention — that is exactly the point.
This essay is not a defence of violence. It's not a glorification of tragedy, and it won't ask you to feel sorry for someone in a way that erases the grief of the people they hurt. What it will ask you to do is something far harder: to look at a human being — any human being, even the most monstrous one you can imagine — and reckon honestly with how they came to be.
Because here is the uncomfortable truth: no one is born a school shooter.
Think about that for a moment. Every person who has ever walked into a school and opened fire was, before any of that, a newborn. A small, helpless thing with no ideology, no rage, no plan. They arrived the same way every one of us did — completely at the mercy of the world they were born into. They didn't choose their parents, their neighbourhood, their brain chemistry, or the particular cruelties that would be shown to them in the years that followed. They didn't select their trauma like items off a menu. It was handed to them, piece by piece, by a world they had no power to refuse.
And yet we look at what they eventually did — something horrific, something unforgivable in its consequences — and we stop the story right there. We freeze the frame at the worst moment. We make that moment the whole person. We say monster and close the file.
But closing the file doesn't make us safer. It just makes us feel cleaner.
The Thought Experiment
Here's a thought experiment I find genuinely uncomfortable, which is precisely why I think it's worth sitting with.
Imagine you could take any person — a teacher, a doctor, a loving parent, someone good by every visible measure — and place them, from the very first moment of their life, into the exact circumstances of someone who grew up to commit an atrocity. The same absent or abusive parents. The same poverty, the same instability. Years of being bullied and humiliated with no intervention. The same untreated depression, undiagnosed conditions, the same exposure to violence as a normal feature of daily life. The same cultural messaging that said: you are nothing, you are powerless, and the only way to be seen is to be feared.
Would they turn out the same?
Not necessarily identically — human beings aren't simple machines. But the honest answer, the one most of us resist because it's genuinely terrifying, is that for a great many people, subjected to a brutal enough set of circumstances over a long enough period, the results would be devastating. Maybe not identical devastation. But devastation.
We are not as separate from the people we condemn as we like to believe. I'm not sure I'm comfortable saying that, but I think it's true.
The Comfort of Monsters
There is a deep psychological comfort in labelling someone a monster. It creates distance. It says: that could never be me, that could never be someone I love, that is a thing apart from humanity. The monster label is a wall we build to protect ourselves from the most unsettling question of all: what would I have become, under different circumstances?
But that wall comes at a cost. When we dehumanise the people who do terrible things, we lose the ability to understand the pipeline that produces them. We stop asking what made them. We stop looking at the schools that failed them, the families that broke them, the systems that ignored them. We stop examining the culture that hands young men a vocabulary of violence and a silence around pain. We mourn the victims — rightly, urgently — but we never ask what we might do to prevent the next one, because that question requires engaging with the humanity of someone we've already decided was never quite human.
The monster label protects our feelings. It does not protect our children.
Empathy Is Not Absolution
This is worth saying clearly, because it gets misunderstood: understanding why someone did something is not the same as forgiving it. Empathy is not a verdict. It doesn't say what happened was acceptable. It says: what happened was caused. And causes can be understood. And things that can be understood can, sometimes, be prevented.
The grief of every victim and every family member who survived a school shooting is real and it is total, and nothing here is meant to compete with that. There is no intellectual framework that makes those losses okay, and no empathy-based argument should be used to silence a survivor who is angry. That anger is completely warranted.
But the rest of us — those of us trying to think about how to live in a world where this keeps happening — owe it to those victims to think more clearly, not less. To resist simple stories. To ask not only who did this but what produced the person who did this.
The Life Before
Almost every perpetrator of mass violence has a history that, examined closely, makes a terrible kind of sense. Not sense in a way that justifies their actions — sense in the way that reveals a long, slow, unaddressed emergency that nobody around them took seriously enough, or took seriously too late.
Childhood trauma. Bullying that went on for years with no intervention. Mental illness that was dismissed or stigmatised or simply never treated. A profound, crushing sense of isolation — of being unseen, a person whose pain didn't register on anyone's radar as worth addressing. Sometimes a culture that told them their suffering was weakness, that help wasn't available, that the only form of power they could access was destructive.
These aren't excuses. They're explanations. And explanations are what we need if we actually want things to change.
What would have happened to many of these individuals if, at any number of points along the way, someone had paused and genuinely asked: are you okay? And then actually listened. And then acted. What if the teachers who noticed something was wrong had resources to intervene? What if the mental health system had caught them before they fell through the cracks? What if the culture they grew up in had given them a language for pain that wasn't synonymous with violence?
We'll never know. But the fact that we can even ask the question suggests the story was never inevitable. It was the product of a thousand small failures, any one of which, corrected, might have led somewhere entirely different.
Amazing, After All
So — the title. Here's what I actually mean.
Every person who has ever committed an act of mass violence was, once, a baby. A child who hadn't yet been shaped into anything. A human being with a full range of capacities — for love, for curiosity, for connection, for laughter. The same capacities you have. The same ones I have. In that original state, before the world got to them, they were as full of potential as any of us. Amazing in the way every human life is amazing: precious, unrepeatable, and entirely open.
What happened to that person — what turned that open potential into closed-off violence — is the question we should never stop asking. Not to excuse the harm. But to honour the fact that harm of this scale doesn't come from nowhere. It is built, piece by piece, by a world that wasn't paying enough attention.
Empathy isn't weakness. It isn't naivety. It isn't an insult to victims. It is the hardest, most demanding form of moral attention — the refusal to look away from complexity, to settle for simple stories, to decide that some lives are too ruined to be worth understanding.
Because if we can understand how a human being becomes capable of the worst things imaginable, we might — just might — be able to reach them before they get there.
And that is not a small thing. That is everything.
Written in the spirit of harm reduction and prevention. Understanding is not the same as forgiveness. It is the beginning of change.