I’m scrolling through Facebook and pass a ring on my newsfeed. The center stone is a round diamond, likely 1.5 karats, surrounded by a perimeter of smaller diamonds positioned in a halo shape, which expands out into a twisted band, encircling the gemstone as if it’s the eye of a hurricane. One would think it was a paid ad placement for Zales, but it’s accompanied by a caption: “What do you guys think of my engagement ring? My fiancé designed it himself!”

I write back, “So what you’re telling me is that he designed it based on the swirl in my toilet after I flush it. Congrats on your sewer ring,” and hit send.

Welcome to the world of ring shaming, where the rings are bad and the comments are mean. Ring shaming is exactly what it sounds like — it’s a group on Facebook dedicated to shaming other people’s rings. The rules are simple: Keep the shaming strictly on the ring and nothing else, thou shalt not delete comments or posts, don’t creep on another person’s profile, and never, under no circumstances, should you ever praise a ring. All rings are awful, even yours. Even mine. No ring is safe.

Before lockdown, ring shaming was a fun way to spend my lunch hour, taking the edge off the sad salad I’d wolf down at my desk. It gave me a welcome distraction from my morning commute, ripping rings apart between subway stops. Ring shaming and remembering to wish Lauren from high school a happy birthday became the only reasons I’d even use the platform. Once shelter in place went into effect, shaming strangers’ rings on the internet became the one hint of normalcy I desperately clung to — not unlike those claw-esque prongs gripping Miss Cathy’s lab-made stone.

By mid-March, shit was starting to hit the fan. The company I work at told all of us to work remotely starting the very next day for who knows how long. Getting out of bed sometimes felt like too much when the world was melting around me. Hiding under the covers, I’d mess around on my phone for a distraction, scrolling past an emerald-cut stone — rich yellow, surrounded by tiny diamonds, and positioned on a gold band. “Shame it if you can, ladies! I love my ring but curious to see what you all will say,” the poster wrote. I responded, “When your pee is that color, that means you’re dehydrated and need to drink more water.” I rolled over and took another stress nap.

During the peak of COVID, CNN was constantly stressing me out, the numbers were rising, and I was worried about my parents, who live in a Southern state that swings too far right for my comfort. My dad is a doctor, and he said people are nervous, but the situation is somewhat stable, for now anyway. I unfriended yet another high school acquaintance posting slightly racist COVID conspiracy theories, and saw a cushion-cut halo grace my newsfeed. Fuck that ring. Fuck halos and all those shitty little diamonds. Fuck all the “Every kiss begins with Kay” ads that choose to feature that horribly overdone ring. “Here we go! I love my ring, what do you guys think?” read the caption. “I think it sucks ass, Jennifer,” I responded, turning off the TV to focus on the work I’m supposed to be doing. Sometimes, the simplest responses fit the most basic-ass rings best.

The days were long, but the weeks blurred together, and the numbers were steadily climbing. New Yorkers were instructed to wear masks in public settings. A few close friends got it. I cried and Postmated them food or Tylenol, left outside their doorsteps to ensure no contact. Ring shaming, at the very least, helped to distract from everything I was feeling, like telling the owner of a rose gold Disney-inspired piece that their ring absolutely sucked and how I did not understand this trend of grown-ass adults being obsessed with Disney.

We adopted a kitten, which may have been a chaotic move in isolation, but after years of me harping on about how much better it would be if we had a kitten in our lives, my fiancé agreed that the time was finally right. She and her brother were born in a bodega, though he was adopted to another loving home by the time the rescue agency approved our application for her. We named her Edie, and she is the sweetest, most perfect angel. A starburst ring from a fairly well-known designer popped up on my feed, and after a member of the group called it a fake, the original poster started firing off in the comments about how she has the paperwork to prove it’s real. “Well congrats on your very real ring that looks like my cat’s asshole, Cynthia,” I replied.

Multiple times a day when I needed a break from the barrage of Slack messages, I’d log on and shame ring after ring, telling Janice that her pear-shaped stone and surrounding halo looked like my pussy after it got vajazzled or that Wanda’s Harry Potter-themed ring was the dumbest shit I had ever seen. “EXCUSE ME, I HAD A HARRY POTTER THEMED WEDDING AND THIS SLYTHERIN IS GOING TO AVADA KEDAVRA YOUR ASS,” she replies. I had struck a nerve with the obnoxious group of people who thought liking Harry Potter qualified as a personality trait. “Bitch, you’re not a Gryffindor, you’re in your 30s. Read another book,” I retorted. “But congrats on spending thousands on your wedding that was effectively a child’s birthday party. The Harry Potter ring still sucks nards.” Wanda got hurt and deleted the post altogether, but screenshots of the dirty delete were uploaded immediately after. God, I love drama.

There's something cathartic about insulting strangers’ rings online, and ring shaming serves as the great equalizer, reiterating that nobody is better than anybody else — especially with that knockoff Harry Winston thing you call a ring, honey. I love the camaraderie of the group and how we all come together with one singular purpose: to remind you that you should never get too cocky over an engagement ring. It's riveting to watch some posters get defensive in the comments, claim their ring was a “rare blue diamond,” then get hurt and threaten to show the paperwork when they’d get called out. Others take the ring shaming in stride, joking in the comments that they were absolutely going to dump their fiancé for the flimsy gumball machine-looking ring they ended up getting. As soon as someone gets cocky and starts to make claims about a fake Tiffany ring being real, the undercover gemologist residing in all of us comes out, calling out flaws in the stone and demanding to see the paperwork.

Then, footage of Ahmaud Arbery’s murder was released. Not long after, George Floyd was murdered. Findings of Breonna Taylor’s murder became public. Footage of Ellijah McClain’s killing came to light, as he struggled to breathe but still telling the cops they were beautiful as they senselessly beat him within an inch of his life. My energy shifted. It had to shift.

Instead of shaming rings all day, I was emailing and calling officials, signing every petition possible, donating money to families of the victims and bail funds alike, and trying my damndest to channel the rage I was feeling into ways to get active. We were all hurt and heartbroken, and we had to do something. As scared as I was to get sick, it felt more important to be out there getting involved, helping the movement in whatever way I could.

One night after coming home from a march for Breonna Taylor, still buzzing from the energy, I was scrolling in bed when a familiar group popped up on my feed. Well hello, old friend.

What is showcased in the picture was a confusing, oval-shaped stone surrounded by a halo adorned in smaller multi-color gems on a gold band. “The mitochondria is the powerhouse of the cell,” I typed and hit send.

Okay, she’s still got it.

Still, the movement continued, and so did I. We were marching, attending vigils, having difficult conversations, and in my case specifically, getting into weird fights with my parents as we all learned and conversed. We didn’t stop. We’re still going, even now. I found out almost by accident that all the time spent ring shaming had actually helped me become better at debating the weird people I didn’t get around to unfriending who would hit me with “not all cops” or “all lives matter” shit. My arguments were more pointed and my delivery was more witty. To shame rings is to know you’re trash. We’re all trash. And with that in mind, recognizing that I come from a place of privilege and that I needed to do internal work became easier to digest. I'm a work in progress, and I'm no better than Amy defending her heart-shaped promise ring in the comments.

Because, you see, ring shaming made me a more humble person. Never would I ever be that annoying bitch on your timeline, looking for excuses to flaunt my ring. I mean, I love my engagement ring, but I know full well that others would call it an Illuminati ring, or ask if it was inspired by the triangular-shaped structure from Midsommar. Ring shaming taught me that you should never feel like you’re better than anyone and to never get too self-important, because somewhere, someone out there thinks the ring you’ve tethered your personality to looks like it was bought for $9.99 at the Sears bankruptcy sale.