For consumers, the remedy is simple but difficult: Stop watching. Do not rubberneck. If a channel or show markets itself on the “mystery” of a participant’s wellbeing, close the tab. Real abuse is not a puzzle box for your entertainment.

Every time a video titled “My controlling partner rates my cleaning routine” goes viral, every time a podcast dissects a “May Li’s” strained smile over a sponsored smoothie, we drive engagement. The algorithm learns that pain, laced with aesthetics, performs well.

By J. Sampson

We are the accessories. If you or someone you know is experiencing coercive control or relationship abuse, contact a local helpline or support service. In the US, call the National Domestic Violence Hotline at 800-799-7233.

In the relentless churn of the 24-hour news cycle and the algorithmic echo chambers of TikTok and Instagram, a new phrase has begun to surface: “May Li abuse.” To the uninitiated, it sounds like the name of a person—perhaps a rising pop star or a wellness influencer. But in the dark corners of online forums and sensationalist docu-series, “May Li” is not a person. It is a placeholder, a whispered codeword for the systematic exploitation of a specific, vulnerable archetype.

We consume these clues not to help May Li, but for entertainment. The lifestyle format—the ASMR cooking sounds, the slow-motion shots of her folding laundry—becomes the sugar coating on a pill of interpersonal violence. Here is the uncomfortable truth: We are the abusers’ enablers.

Today, the mechanism is more insidious. Streaming platforms now produce glossy docuseries that follow “May Li” figures with a sympathetic score and cinematic B-roll. The audience is invited to play detective: Is she okay? Look at how he talks to her in the background of her cooking tutorial. Notice how she flinches when the doorbell rings.