At a time when the world feels like it’s already choking on mouthfuls of disheartening news every day — genocide on the Gaza strip, climate crisis, political descent here and abroad – the last thing any of us want to hear about is another headline on a young star reportedly hospitalized following a possible overdose. Yet here we all are, watching a very familiar pattern unfold. This time, it’s our beloved queerby Lil Nas X.

According to TMZ, Lil Nas X, né Montero Lamar Hill, was reportedly hospitalized for a possible overdose mere months after he opened up publicly about how difficult the last few years of his career have been. He took to social media, stating, “I jumped straight into adulthood with extreme fame around me. So it was really nice to be just outside walking and meeting people in the streets and eating at restaurants, just even alone, spending a lot of alone time in solitude.”

Sound familiar? It should. The razzle-dazzling surface of fame seldom shows us the internal clutter and chaos, the pressure, the expectation to always be on, meanwhile mental health is brushed aside. And for our queer artists, particularly Black queer artists like Lil Nas X, the burden becomes that much denser.

We’ve seen this before. Demi Lovato. Aaron Carter. Whitney Houston. Talented, beloved artists who, for one reason or another, found themselves unraveling under the unrelenting scrutiny and chaos that comes hand in hand with fame. Some of them make it through. Some don’t. Many cry for help ages before things reach a breaking point. But what did we do? Did we listen? Did we leave Britney alone? Or are we the ones who light the match, pull out our phones, and film the flames? For once, please don’t tag me.

Lil Nas X sashayed onto the scene not just as a chart-topping artist, but as a cultural disruptor. Diva wore dresses to award shows. He clapped his cheeks on Lucifer in the music video for “Montero.” He vogued his way into the conversation on gender, sexuality, religion, and race that made a whole lot of folks uncomfortable, and that was the point. We were living for it, for him. We liked, we shared, and we reposted. We ate it tf up and licked our fingers clean. But did we ever truly care?

When a person like Lil Nas X steps out of the spotlight to say, “I’ve been having a  hard time,” do we respond with any empathy, or just wait around for the next head turning lewk or satanic lapdance? It’s easy to forget that behind the headlines is a real human. One with a nervous system, a childhood, a family, and so much more. And, what most often goes ignored by all, a limit.

There is something particularly painful about seeing this happen to queer people in the public eye. We’re told that visibility is freedom. And to an extent, it is. Lil Nas X became a rare symbol of queer Black excellence in mainstream media, an unapologetic icon. But visibility without protection has the potential to be fatal. Fame doesn’t guarantee safety — not physically nor emotionally. As a matter of opinion, for queer people, it’s more often than not the opposite.

When you’re queer in the spotlight, you’re performing resilience first and music second. You’re expected to rise above, to remain unbothered, to smile at all times no matter the weight of the pressure, to be a walking teachable moment at every moment. And when you break down? People either turn their backs or turn you into a meme.

FACT: mental health in the queer community is already a crisis. Study upon study have consistently shown that LGBTQ identifying folks are at significantly higher risk for anxiety, depression, and suicide. Add international stardom to the mix, and you don’t get immunity from this. You get fast-tracked.

And yet, we continue to lap up these public struggles like entertainment. The media machine feeds on our thirst, and we keep clicking. Headlines about a “possible overdose” become the most clicked clickbait. Tweets become jokes. Vulnerability becomes viral.

So then we have the question, what does it mean to authentically support an artist like Lil Nas X, not just when he’s on stage, but when off stage as well? When the posts stop posting. When the glitter dulls. Are we prepared to support our icons through their harder times the way we do when they’re on top of the world?

We can start by changing how we engage. Honestly take a moment to ask yourself, are you clicking on these stories to gag or to understand? Are you giving compassion or commentary? Are you holding a mic to their cry for help, or are you fetishizing their struggle?

We also need to shine a light on the entertainment industry to offer real mental health resources and protections, especially for young and marginalized artists whose career they are both responsible for and profit immensely from. Care does not come hand in hand with fame. It’s often the reason care is a concern.

We don’t know the full story of what happened with Lil Nas X, and jumping to conclusions is like eating at Chick-fil-A: only those of low intellect are tempted. But what we do know is that someone allegedly ended up in the hospital after publicly saying they were struggling. That alone should be enough to warrant concern. Not for the gossip or clicks but for simple humanity.