I have always been fascinated by cancel culture. There is something uniquely interesting about watching society collectively decide that a person no longer deserves a place in the cultural zeitgeist. In an instant, careers can stall, reputations can collapse, and audiences that took years to build can seemingly disappear overnight. But what fascinates me even more is what happens afterward. How long does being “canceled” last? How easily can someone be welcomed back? And, perhaps most importantly, how much does the public really remember? We like to think of cancel culture as permanent; as a kind of social death sentence for people who have broken our social code. Sometimes, all it takes for someone to be “uncancelled” is enough time, a little nostalgia, and an audience willing to forget. I feel like the best example right now is Stassi Schroeder from Vanderpump Rules.
Vanderpump Rules started in 2013 after Real Housewives of Beverly Hills star Lisa Vanderpump got the green light for a spinoff following her experience running SUR (Sexy Unique Restaurant). No, I am not joking.
Stassi was a waitress at SUR, and the first couple of seasons revolved around her. The waitstaff there had such a unique level of drama that they honestly provided the kind of show that feels like lightning in a bottle. Producers found a group of SURvers (yes, this is really what they called them) who were aspiring actors, musicians, and models. But they also had one thing in common: they were all severely flawed individuals who seemed overly excited to share those flaws with the world. In the first season alone, you have a waitress who had been the mistress of the husband of one of Lisa Vanderpump’s friends, a pathological liar who breaks up with his recovering-addict girlfriend at her AA meeting (justice for Laura-Leigh), and an on-again, off-again summer romance that starts to give everyone a headache. And that’s just the beginning.
I say all of this to make one point: everyone in this cast has shown their bad side to such an extreme degree that you eventually start to become numb to the behavior. What might have been genuinely shocking in the first few episodes eventually becomes just another Tuesday at SUR.
I think a big part of why the audience is so willing to excuse their behavior is that most of them are very young (minus Jax, the aforementioned pathological liar). They are still figuring themselves out, making terrible decisions, and learning, often the hard way, that their actions have consequences. There is also something oddly commendable about how willing they are to put their flaws on display. They don’t exactly hide their messiness; in fact, they seem almost determined to broadcast it.
Because of that, I have found myself giving a lot of them grace for the things they do. Everyone makes mistakes. Everyone has moments they aren’t proud of. The difference is that most of us get to make those mistakes privately, learn from them, and eventually move on. These people have their worst decisions documented on national television for millions of people to watch, dissect, judge, and remember. That changes the way you watch the show. That doesn’t excuse everything they do, but it does make their behavior a little easier to understand. After all, if all of us had our worst moments preserved in high definition and replayed for millions of strangers, I imagine we’d all have a few things we’d like the audience to forget.
So, at what point is enough enough?
In 2020, Stassi Schroeder (32 at the time) and castmate Kristen Doute were fired from Vanderpump Rules for their behavior off camera. In the aftermath of George Floyd’s murder, Stassi and Kristen faced scrutiny over an incident involving their only Black castmate, Faith Stowers. The two had previously called the police on Faith after accusing her of a crime she had not committed, despite knowing she was innocent.
This was not filmed, nor was this even mentioned on the show. This was no longer just reality-TV messiness; their actions had real-world consequences for another person. Suddenly, the question was no longer whether the cast was simply young and immature. It developed into asking, is this character simply not a good person? It made us all ask ourselves, at what point does being flawed stop being good entertainment?
Six years later, on July 20, 2026, People magazine announced that Schroeder would star in a new reality television series titled House of Stassi. When I heard the news, I wasn’t necessarily shocked. Bravo had already rehired Kristen Doute in 2024 for The Valley, although that felt somewhat different because the show was marketed as an ensemble spinoff featuring several former Vanderpump Rules cast members.
What surprised me more was the idea that people actually wanted a show centered around Stassi and, more importantly, that there was a collective amnesia surrounding what she and Doute had done. It was as if six years had been enough time for the public to forget why Stassi was fired in the first place. The messy reality-TV persona that had once made her entertaining seemed entirely separate from the person who had faced serious consequences for her actions.
That raises a bigger question: How long does someone have to be removed from the spotlight before we stop holding them accountable for what they did to get there in the first place?
I don’t think the answer is that Stassi should never work again. People are capable of change, and I don’t believe a person should be permanently defined by the worst thing they have ever done. But there is a difference between forgiveness and forgetting.
In House of Stassi, Stassi repeatedly refers to her firing from Vanderpump Rules (and the racist act that led to it) as the moment she was “canceled.” She talks about how she never thought she would work again, how the experience affected her husband and children, and how grateful she is to finally have another opportunity to do what she loves: be on reality television. What is noticeably absent, however, is any real discussion of what she actually did. Even in a show about her return, the focus remains largely on what happened to Stassi in the aftermath of her cancellation rather than what Stassi did to be canceled. We are forced to remember that she was indeed canceled, but we are given very little reason (and motivation) to remember why.
Perhaps the most powerful force in cancel culture isn’t cancellation at all. It’s our ability to forget.
Ultimately, Stassi’s comeback says as much about the audience as it does about Stassi herself. Cancel culture can punish someone, remove them from a platform, and make them temporarily untouchable, but it cannot permanently control whether an audience will want them back. Six years ago, the public seemed to agree that Stassi had crossed a line. Six years later, that same public is being asked to watch her again. Apparently, enough people are willing to do so. I mean, hey, I watched it so I could write this article. I can sit here and question why anyone would want to watch Stassi again, but I am also part of the audience that gave her new show a view.
That is the uncomfortable thing about celebrity culture: outrage and entertainment can exist at the same time. We can remember what someone did, believe they should have faced consequences, and still be curious enough to tune in when they return. Maybe that is why cancellation is rarely permanent. The audience ultimately has the final say, and sometimes curiosity is stronger than conviction. So perhaps the question isn’t whether cancel culture works. Maybe the better question is what happens after the cancellation; when the outrage fades, the algorithm moves on, and we have to decide for ourselves whether we are willing to watch again.
