I often describe myself as a “victim of circumstance,” which is to say, deeply unserious things seem to happen to me at a suspiciously high frequency.

There was the time I was the only one egged outside Shrine Auditorium in a crowd of 15 of my friends. Or when I fell off a mechanical bull in such perfect slapstick form that the person I landed on walked away fine, while I broke my thumb. Or when, in a sea of people on the Hollywood Walk of Fame, an unhoused woman with huge breast implants singled me out, saying, “You don’t need to be eating all that popcorn!” because I was holding a large bucket. 

I’ve come to accept that my life could be accompanied by an offscreen laugh track.

So when a new self-help philosophy started circulating on my TikTok For You Page — Mel Robbins’ “Let Them Theory” — I understood the appeal. Her core idea is reasonable: You can’t control other people’s behavior, so conserve your energy. If your friend flakes, let them. If someone disrespects you, let them. In her complete framing, “Let Them” is paired with “Let Me”: Let yourself stay grounded and choose how to react.  

Robbins frames her theory as a recalibration of emotional boundaries: less contortion, more self-certainty. But the nuance didn’t survive the algorithm. Robbins’ message mutated from “stop micromanaging people” to “stop engaging.” A boundary became a shrug; detachment was mistaken for wisdom, and it’s easy to see why: Noninvolvement lowers the risk of embarrassment, rejection and even boredom. 

But it also lowers the chances that anything worthwhile will happen. Somewhere along the way, letting go became indistinguishable from giving up. 

I’m not suggesting obsessive pursuit or condoning endless emotional labor. But the cultural embrace of detachment as a marker of maturity has started to look less like serenity and more like resignation. It’s a way to avoid vulnerability, disappointment and the discomfort of asking for what you want.

Consider dating: The passive reading of “let them” encourages preemptive indifference, as if caring first is a tactical disadvantage. It feels safe and modern, even therapeutic. Instead of communicating, we simply wait for the outcome to reveal itself. In practice, it collapses the environment where intimacy is built — the awkward questions, the clarifications, the small repairs after a misunderstanding. Relationships don’t self-assemble, after all. 

Friendships follow the same logic. “If they don’t text, don’t text” gets framed as respecting yourself, but over time, it erodes the everyday maintenance that keeps friendships alive. Research on relationship maintenance, such as the work of Laura Stafford and Daniel J. Canary in a 1991 study, shows that closeness depends on active effort: checking in, initiating plans or voicing concern. When no one makes the first move, connections don’t stay neutral; they die.

This instinct toward passivity extends beyond our personal lives. In politics, this detachment becomes apathy if policy doesn’t seem to affect us. It feels easier to watch than to act; the world is overwhelming, and the temptation to withdraw is powerful. But, as psychologists Bibb Latané and John Darley demonstrated in 1968 with their research on the bystander effect, it’s a reinforcement of the status quo. If everyone assumes someone else will intervene, no one does. 

We can’t mistake self-protection for enlightenment and disengagement for maturity. That’s where Robbins’ full theory actually matters, because the internet only adopted half of it. The sequel to “Let Them,” “Let Me,” illustrates Robbins’ point: to not linger on the outskirts of your life like a fly on the wall. It was to participate without control. This is the harder part; it’s easier to “let them” than to “let me.”

As someone who’s spent a fair amount of time experiencing the absurdity of the universe, I get the temptation to surrender. There’s a sick kind of peace in letting the universe “handle it.” But the universe isn’t a screenwriter … It’s more like a sketch partner who keeps forgetting the bit. 

Plots move because characters make choices, especially the stupidly ridiculous ones. So, here’s my cornball alternative, protagonist to protagonist: 

Let them — but don’t disappear. Let yourself ask; let yourself care; let yourself call first. Let yourself say, “I want this,” even if your voice squeaks a bit. Let yourself try, even when there is no guarantee it’ll work, and surrender yourself to the endless possibilities of embarrassment and humiliation. 

There is no episode without instigating a plot point; no love story without someone risking embarrassment; and no change without someone choosing to act.