We are living through a moment when reality itself feels fragile. A pandemic, natural disasters, and nationwide protests have upended daily life, and alongside those visible crises runs another one: an epidemic of misinformation that feeds on fear and deepens divisions. Kim Bisheff, a Cal Poly journalism lecturer who studies how falsehoods travel online, says the term misinformation gets thrown around loosely, but at its core it means false information deliberately pushed out with the intent to deceive. It works because it targets our emotional wiring. Human beings are wired to react powerfully to fear and anger, and when a piece of content validates those feelings, our critical thinking tends to go offline. On social media, that means we like, share, heart, comment, and in doing so we become amplifiers. In the pre-social media era, a lie might die in a conversation; today it can circle the globe before anyone fact-checks it. The results are not abstract. Misinformation has fueled panic-buying, risky self-medication, boarded-up storefronts, and a poisonous distrust of institutions. It has also created a shared reality problem: when different groups believe different facts, it becomes hard to even agree on what is true. Bisheff is clear that this is not simply a matter of stupid people falling for silly things. Smart, well-meaning people are susceptible, especially in moments of uncertainty. We all want answers, and when official guidance feels thin or contradictory, a confident falsehood can feel like a lifeline. That is why the same baseless rumors keep appearing in different cities with almost identical wording. They are not accidents; they are designed to trigger an emotional response and travel. Recognizing that design is the first step toward resisting it. We have to understand how misinformation operates before we can stop spreading it, and we have to accept that none of us are immune. The problem is not “out there”; it lives in the habits and impulses we all carry.
Consider how misinformation takes root in concrete situations. Early in the pandemic, a rumor emerged that hydroxychloroquine was a miracle cure for COVID-19. It tapped into genuine terror, and in the absence of solid information, people grabbed onto it. Even intelligent individuals began taking the drug prophylactically, despite no definitive evidence it worked. Later research showed it could actually be harmful, but by then the narrative had already sunk in. Memes kept circulating; people kept sharing them, not out of malice but out of desperation. Then there are the viral texts and Facebook posts claiming that antifa activists are being bussed into small towns to provoke looting before protests. The exact same rumor has appeared in cities across the country, often with nearly the same wording. In San Luis Obispo, it caused shop owners to board up their windows and residents to feel anxious and threatened. That is not a harmless prank; it is a deliberate attempt to create fear and uncertainty. Bisheff points out that repeated exposure to false information makes it feel true. We see a claim from a friend of a friend; we trust the source; our guard drops. The emotional payoff of sharing scary or outrage-inducing content is strong, and the feeling of being “in the know” makes the falsehood even more compelling. Once a misinformation story takes hold, it is incredibly hard to contain. Debunking does not travel as fast as the original lie. Truth, as Bisheff says, simply doesn’t spread the way falsehood does. A correction may be published, but by then the fear has already been passed along to thousands of people. This is because debunking feels less satisfying than validation. Admitting we were fooled is embarrassing. It is easier to quietly move on, or to double down, than to confront the fact that we helped spread something false. That human dynamic is what makes misinformation so powerful and so resistant to facts.
Bisheff explains that once a belief is formed, presenting contrary facts often makes people dig in rather than change their minds. This is especially painful when the people we love fall for polished, convincing misinformation. The “Plandemic” video was a striking example: it was professionally produced, seductive, and easy to share. Watching a loved one embrace it can be heartbreaking. If you simply tell them they’re wrong, you will likely lose them. The better approach is to find common ground. Instead of attacking, you can say something like, “I saw that video too. It was really convincing. I was curious about the woman interviewed, so I searched and found this—what do you think?” That invites a shared journey of discovery rather than a defensive battle. It takes away shame and accusation, and it keeps the relationship intact. It also recognizes that people believe misinformation for understandable reasons: they are scared, they want answers, and they trust the people who shared it with them. If we approach them with empathy instead of contempt, we have a much better chance of opening their minds. The stakes are high. Bisheff worries that if Americans keep treating social media as their primary news source and keep turning away from reliable journalism, democratic decision-making will suffer. There are people who want to see democratic institutions weakened, and spreading inflammatory content is one way to do it. The chaos itself is the goal. We need to inoculate ourselves by being aware of this dynamic and by pausing when we feel a strong emotional reaction to something we’ve just read. That pause is the crucial moment. It can be the difference between thoughtlessly amplifying a destructive rumor and stopping to ask, “Wait, is this even true?”
The real-world consequences of misinformation are not hypothetical. In 2016, the “Pizzagate” conspiracy theory claimed that prominent Democrats were running a pedophile ring out of a Washington, D.C. pizzeria. The story gained enormous traction online, and one believer armed himself, drove to the restaurant, burst in, and fired a shot at a lock. He found no children, no torture chamber, no evidence of any plot—just cooking supplies. The restaurant didn’t even have a basement. Remarkably, variations of that conspiracy still circulate today. This is what happens when false information bleeds offline: it can endanger real people, poison communities, and warp our sense of what is possible. Bisheff notes that misinformation has consequences beyond the obvious. It causes businesses to board up their windows because of phantom threats. It causes people to take dangerous drugs. It deepens tribal divisions because each side lives in a different factual universe. When people cannot agree on basic facts, elections become impossible to adjudicate meaningfully. Our democracy depends on a shared foundation of truth, or at least a shared willingness to pursue it. If we lose that, we lose the ability to make collective decisions based on reality. The problem is compounded by the fact that false information spreads faster than true information, especially when it triggers fear or anger. A correction is rarely as satisfying to share as a shocking allegation. And once a falsehood has been widely shared, it becomes part of a narrative that people are emotionally invested in protecting. That is why the solution cannot be simply “flood the internet with facts.” Facts matter, but they must be delivered with an understanding of human psychology. We have to approach misinformation the way we approach a public health crisis: with empathy, patience, and a willingness to meet people where they are. The good news is that there are concrete steps we can take, both as individuals and as a society.
So how do we become smarter consumers of information? Bisheff is blunt: “Mark Zuckerberg is not going to save us.” We have to do the work ourselves. First, when we encounter a story, we should look for a byline. Then we should look up the author across social channels and ask: Do they have a journalism background, or are they an advocate? It matters. We also need to improve our ability to distinguish between fact-based reporting and opinion writing. Opinion is often framed to provoke emotion, which is why it gets shared more online. But if we mistake it for news, we become easier to manipulate. Another key is attribution. Professional journalism attributes its claims to named, credible sources. The word “said” appears all over serious news stories—we rarely notice it, but if we start looking for it, we can see exactly where the reporter got their information. We should want facts confirmed by primary sources. If an article is about a development project, for example, the reporter should be talking to the development director, not just an angry neighbor. That doesn’t mean public voices don’t belong in stories; they do, but their opinions should be presented as opinions, not as established facts. When a story lacks bylines, relies on anonymous sources, or uses language designed to trigger outrage, we should be skeptical. Organizations like the News Literacy Project offer excellent resources for improving these skills, and MediaWise through the Poynter Institute provides free fact-checking education aimed at younger voters. The tools exist. The problem is that they are not always easy to find, and they are not nearly as addictive as an inflammatory meme. We have to deliberately seek them out and practice the habit of verification before sharing. That may sound like a lot of effort, but it is a small price to pay for the ability to live in a reality-based world. It is also the closest thing we have to a vaccine against the misinformation pandemic.
There are also non-partisan fact-checking organizations—Snopes, Politifact, FactCheck.org—staffed by experienced journalists who show their work. Bisheff encourages people not to take her word for it. Follow their links, retrace their steps, and see for yourself. They are among the most transparent institutions in journalism today. But fact-checking alone won’t save us. We also need to do something simpler and harder: practice social media distancing. That doesn’t mean quitting social media entirely; it means changing how we use it. Instead of treating it as a news source, we can treat it as a place to share family photos, beautiful hikes, and things that make us feel positive emotions. If we encounter something that makes us feel scared or angry, we should stop, take a breath, and put on our critical thinking brain. At the very least, we should not react to it immediately. If we simply stop sharing misinformation, Bisheff argues, the problem will recede quickly. Misinformation will never completely disappear—conspiracy theories and propaganda have always existed. But their power depends on our willingness to amplify them. We have the choice to break the chain. It sounds almost absurdly simple, but it might be the most serious civic duty of our time. Bisheff does not sugarcoat the stakes: if we don’t learn to be better, smarter consumers of information, she says, this misinformation pandemic will do in our democracy. That sounds dramatic, but it is not hyperbole. The tools of mass communication have outstripped our psychological defenses. We are not powerless, though. Every time we pause before sharing, every time we check a source, every time we have a patient conversation with a loved one, we are rebuilding a shared foundation of truth. That is hard work, but it is ordinary work, and it is available to all of us. The future of democratic life may depend on whether we choose to do it.