If you’ve been locked into this season of Love is Blind like I have – which means you’ve been in the weeds to an exorbitant extent – you’re aware of the controversy surrounding cast members and now-married couple Tyler and Ashley.
On screen, Tyler and Ashley had a storybook romance. Fell in love in the infamous Love is Blind pods, had a romantic vacation on the beach, a daring couple’s sky dive, and a beautiful wedding in front of friends and family.
Off screen, Tyler’s past (and present?) has been running to social media, sharing a side of Tyler not aired on the show. Allegations (a lot being presented with inarguable evidence) include Tyler having three kids with a “friend,” fighting for custody of those kids after the relationship with the friend devolved, owing tens of thousands of dollars in child support, and abandoning his children to participate on the reality show.
But I’m not here to gossip about Tyler’s indiscretions (as tempting as that may be). No. I’m here to consider the long-asked premise: “I don’t owe you an explanation.”
The “I” in this instance is the reality star and the “you” is the audience. It happens all the time. A regular person agrees to be on a reality show. They share the intimate details of a personal journey. On screen, they introduce us (the audience) to their friends, their family, share their feelings, details about their sex life, their desires, their fears, their childhood traumas, the list goes on. Then, when presented with something that challenges the image they are trying to portray to the public, the become resentful. Offended by follow-up questions, angered by feedback and opinions.
Tyler is no different. At the Love is Blind reunion (snooze), he declared in front of the studio audience. “I don’t owe anyone an explanation but my wife.”
Is that so?
In this age where regular people with regular lives abandon that regularity to step into the glaring limelight of reality television, they turn their lives into content. By doing so, is that not an informal agreement that the audience who is invested in your personal journey have a certain level of access to that content?
Surely, the reality star is more than happy to soak up the good will and increased follower counts that go along with becoming a darling of whatever show they’re on; pumping out merch and starting podcasts to fund a possibly burgeoning reality star “career.”
But the minute the tide turns, and public opinion has tones of disapproval or condemnation, the boundaries appear. Explanations are not owed, comments are deleted, different versions of “you guys don’t know me, you don’t understand me” start appearing in notes app posts.
I get it. The internet can be a dark place. One wrong move and you’re receiving death threats from stay-at-home moms in Wisconsin. And it’s important to prioritize mental health and take care of yourself first.
But perhaps if that was a concern, appearing on a reality tv show was not a good idea? Putting yourself in a situation where you are divulging your inner most insecurities and fears in front of cameramen, producers, and cast mates you’ve never met – only for it to air for millions of strangers in a year’s time – is no easy thing to back track from. And as a viewer, after watching Tyler lie by omission to his fiancé’s face for about 6 hours of episodes, I think getting some sort of explanation from him is not a big ask.
Thoughts?
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