Why I Still Work with Controversial Clients (and Why That’s Probably a Good Thing)

There’s a strange irony in what I do for work. People ask what I do, I say crisis PR, and their faces light up. They tell me it sounds fascinating. “God, I’d love to hear more.” But the second I mention that, yes, I sometimes work with people who’ve been cancelled, the same people everyone’s talking about, that interest turns to judgement. It’s a visible shift. Curiosity becomes caution.

But what did they expect? I work in crisis PR. No one’s hiring me because everything is going brilliantly. You don’t get cancelled for being kind and widely adored. You get cancelled because something serious, or something perceived to be serious, has happened. That’s when my job begins.

For context, I also work with public figures who are considered safe, well-liked and non-controversial. Most of that work falls under reputation management, helping ensure they don’t get cancelled in the first place. It’s preventative. Quiet. Often just helping them navigate touchy subjects with care, or working behind the scenes to keep things steady. I work with brands too. But that’s not the work people find fascinating. It’s the mess they’re drawn to. The clients they want to guess at.

And to be honest, most people don’t actually care about justice or truth. They just love drama. Cancellation has become entertainment. It gives people something to post about, something to feel morally aligned over, and when it’s all over, they’re gutted it ended. They want a storyline, not a resolution.

That’s why I don’t take outrage at face value anymore. I’ve seen too much of it up close. It’s rarely rooted in facts. It’s performative. Theatrical. There’s this exaggerated moral outrage online, but behind it is a crowd enjoying the show.

The PR no one wants to talk about

Most traditional PR firms want nothing to do with this kind of work. It’s not just about reputation, it’s a different job entirely. Traditional PR is about visibility, association, name-dropping. It’s networking at The Ivy, being seen at the right events, smiling at photographers while clients do the rounds. Their client lists are public for a reason, it’s how they get new business.

Crisis PR is the complete opposite. It’s secretive, quiet, and only works because of trust. I can’t promote my work. I don’t post about clients. I’ve signed more NDAs than I can count. Even close friends don’t know who I work with. And my business runs almost entirely on word of mouth.

That doesn’t mean I’m disconnected. I still need top-tier contacts. I’ve spent ten years building relationships with journalists who understand what I do and don’t judge me for it. They know the difference between spinning and fact-correcting. That’s a very different network than the one used for brand placement and lifestyle fluff pieces. A boutique agency with standard press contacts wouldn’t have the right relationships, and even if they did, their contacts wouldn’t go near a controversial client.

Traditional PRs are responsible for reputation, I’m often responsible for someone’s entire future. That’s a completely different pressure. I’m being asked to salvage careers, to help someone avoid public ruin, and more often than not, to manage the emotional fallout too. Someone’s mental health can sit on my shoulders whether I like it or not. It’s a huge responsibility, and people forget that.

Giving people the benefit of the doubt

Not everyone I work with is innocent. But not everyone is guilty either. And some of the most dramatic cancellations I’ve dealt with have been based on stories that were wildly untrue.

One case stands out. A very young client, falsely accused of something severe. By the time I spoke to him, no PR would touch him. He was on suicide watch. I spoke with him for three hours. He was raw, open and deeply shaken. Something in my gut told me to listen. I spoke to his dad for another two. They sent me the receipts. Screenshots. Timestamps. Proof. The whole story changed.

We worked together to kill the story. Now he’s thriving, with millions of followers and a healthy career. But at the time, if I’d told anyone I was working with him, they’d have judged me as harshly as they judged him. That’s the reality of this job. You often know the truth long before anyone else does, and you have to keep your mouth shut and do the work.

I’ve heard people casually talk about my clients like they’re cartoon villains, completely unaware they’re talking about someone I’m actively working with. I’ve nodded, tutted, played along. Not because I agree, but because I’ve realised people just enjoy the conversation. Cancellation makes for brilliant table talk. They don’t need it to be true, they just want a take.

This isn’t about spin

To be clear, spin has a place in PR. We’ve all seen the fake relationships timed perfectly with a single release. The odd tabloid story that mysteriously breaks the week someone’s got a new film or album coming out. I do work on those campaigns. They’re part of long-term reputation management, sometimes to improve a client’s image, sometimes to build public familiarity, sometimes to help launch something smoothly without friction. Sometimes, they’re just there to prevent a cancellation from happening.

But that’s not what crisis PR is. When someone’s being accused of something serious, when the media’s circling and there’s legal pressure and people are having breakdowns on the phone, that’s not where spin belongs.

My job then is to stabilise. To stop things from getting worse. To make sure what’s reported is factual, that the timeline is accurate, and that what’s being said can’t be pulled apart later. The goal isn’t to make someone look perfect. It’s to make sure they’re not being destroyed over something that isn’t true.

What Crisis PR actually involves

If the cancellation is happening online, I begin by listening. Reddit threads. TikTok. Discord servers. Twitter replies. I’m not scanning headlines, I’m looking at the mood. Who’s angry, who’s confused, what misinformation is being repeated. I track patterns. I trace it back to where it started. I look for what’s sticking and why.

Then comes strategy. Do we respond? If so, when? What’s the tone? How much do we reveal? Will it land, or make things worse? Sometimes silence is smarter. Sometimes you have to get ahead of it. I have to read the digital room better than anyone else.

And if the client is global, which most of mine are (majority of my clients are based in the US), I have to consider how different cultures will respond. Some countries are hypersensitive to race, others to LGBT+ rights. In parts of Europe, trans issues are at the forefront. In the UK, there’s sharper focus on racial nuance. In the US, everything is supercharged. The same statement will be read ten different ways depending on where it lands. My job is to thread that needle, to find the language that does the least damage while still holding some kind of integrity.

Then there’s the legal side. Weekly calls with lawyers, sometimes across multiple countries. I’ve spent hours reading legal codes just to write a single sentence. Every word matters. One incorrect statement can cause irreversible damage.

Behind that, I’m building timelines, prepping internal teams, forecasting leaks, and helping clients stay mentally afloat. I’ve had first calls where someone’s crying on the other end of the line. Sometimes they’re suicidal. And while I’m not a therapist, in that moment, I’m expected to be the person who has the solution. And sometimes I am.

I’ve been judged too

Every so often, a client tags me or follows me publicly, and people put two and two together. And suddenly, I’m part of the problem.

There’s this assumption that I’m proactively helping people get away with things. That I’m doing damage control for the sake of image. That I’m here to help the worst people keep their careers. That’s not the reality. I’m here to make sure what’s being reported is actually true. Even if it’s still ugly. I’ve worked on stories where the truth was still bad, but it wasn’t what was being claimed, and that matters.

Some people, especially those who lean very politically correct, believe it’s morally wrong to even give someone like that the time of day. That helping them get their truth out is a betrayal. That the press should just run with whatever makes them look worst. I find that mindset dangerous. And frankly, I think it comes from fear. Some people are so uncomfortable with differing opinions, they’d rather label everyone who works with someone they dislike as evil by default.

I’m not defending anyone’s actions. But I am defending the idea that the public deserves to hear facts, not distorted headlines that give people no chance of recovering. If I were a lawyer, or a therapist, no one would blink. But because it’s PR, people assume I’m spinning. That’s not what I do. I’m here to keep stories accurate, not flattering.

Do you really want a fan doing it instead?

When a public figure is cancelled and every professional runs for the hills, who’s left? Their fans. Their friends. Their family. People who are loyal, but not strategic.

And they’re often the worst people to listen to. I’ve gone head to head with clients’ friends who think they’re great at PR because they’ve got 3,000 followers and have written a few spicy captions. They’ll come up with what they think is a brilliant plan, but it only works for their immediate social circle. They haven’t thought about public perception, or the long-term effects, or how it reads outside of their own bubble.

The goal in crisis PR is to soften as many different opinions as possible, not just the ones that already agree with you. And fans don’t understand that. Friends don’t understand that. I’ve had clients say things like “My mate says I should just say this,” and I’ve had to calmly explain how that would destroy what little support they have left. You need someone who’s not emotionally attached to the outcome, someone who can see five moves ahead.

I’ve worked with some of the most hated people online who’ve been kind, funny and respectful in private. I’ve also worked with some of the most adored public figures who’ve been rude, entitled and completely impossible to deal with. People think they know who someone is, but they don’t. Public perception is almost always miles off.

Final thoughts

This job changes the way you see people. You stop assuming the headlines are true. You stop believing statements at face value. And you stop taking outrage too seriously, because you’ve seen how much of it is fake.

I’ve seen public figures ditch friends the second they get cancelled. I’ve seen people who were called victims suddenly surrounded by influencers eager to be photographed next to them. I’ve read texts that said things like “Sorry I had to unfollow you but I love you and know you’re innocent.” That’s the world I work in. It’s messy. It’s performative. And it’s exhausting.

You don’t just become someone’s PR. You become their therapist. Their strategist. Their best friend. You carry their secrets. You carry their stress. And you carry the weight of trying to fix a situation that sometimes can’t be fixed, only softened.

But I still believe in what I do. Because I know how wrong the public can get it. And I know how quickly someone can be destroyed over something they didn’t even do.

And chances are, you probably like someone I’ve worked with.
In fact, you might really like them.
But a few years ago, you would’ve hated them.
That shift? That’s my job.