My 3 Biggest Lessons From One Year of Making YouTube Content

About a year ago, I hit “upload” on my first YouTube video with very little idea of what I was doing. I didn’t know anything about YouTube growth, nor did I have the technical skills required to run a podcast. The only thing I really knew how to do was talk about current events and politics.

Twelve months and nearly 200 videos later, creating content has become one of the most challenging, eye-opening, and unexpectedly meaningful experiences of my life. It has taught me lessons that have changed how I think about storytelling, politics, audiences, and even myself.

Here are the biggest lessons I’ve learned after one full year of making YouTube content.

1. Politics Is Even More Divisive Than I Thought

I always knew politics was polarizing — but I didn’t fully grasp just how reactive and emotionally charged online political conversation has become until the comments started rolling in on my videos. It wasn’t just disagreement; it was people treating a 10-minute YouTube video like an existential threat to their worldview.

Like bro, I’m just sitting in my bedroom with a $40 camera attached to my borrowed laptop, recording myself giving my opinions on politics after a 10-hour day at my regular job. I only have like 1,500 subscribers. I am grossly unimportant in the political commentary space… it’s not that deep. But to many people, it is that deep.

If I said something mildly critical of a political figure they supported, I’d get hundreds of comments calling me biased, brainwashed, or worse — gay. “Gay” isn’t actually worse (or bad at all), but to MAGA, using gay (and other colorful synonyms) as a slur — not merely in a joking manner — is quite popular. And I don’t mind being called that. I’m secure enough in my sexuality to not give a sh*t what someone who doesn’t know me says about me. In my view, it actually shows their fragile masculinity if they feel the need to attack someone for allegedly lacking their preferred masculine traits.

If I said something sympathetic about a marginalized group, the same people accused me of “pandering” or “trying to destroy the country.” If I questioned a viral narrative, people jumped to the most extreme interpretation possible.

What shocked me wasn’t the negative comments themselves — it was how predictable they became. After a while, I could almost forecast which lines in my video would set people off, which political tribes would show up in the replies, and which talking points would repeat like clockwork.

What I learned:
Politics online isn’t about conversation — it’s about identity.
Once you understand that, the hostility makes more sense. People aren’t defending a policy; they’re defending their sense of belonging.

This lesson made me recalibrate how I approach political topics. I’ve recently stopped chasing virality through outrage and instead started focusing on clarity, nuance, and, frankly, sanity. That shift hasn’t (and won’t) eliminate the angry comments — but hopefully it will cultivate a much healthier community going forward.

2. Most People Online Aren’t Trying to Understand You — They’re Trying to Win

One of the harshest but most eye-opening lessons from my first year on YouTube is that most people who comment aren’t there for a conversation. They’re there for a debate. Or, more accurately, they’re there to win a debate that only exists in their head.

I learned this the hard way.

Whenever I posted a video with nuance, people responded as if I’d taken the most extreme position imaginable. If I questioned something from the left, people accused me of being a secret conservative. If I criticized a conservative talking point, suddenly I was a “woke extremist.” There was no curiosity about my point of view, no genuine attempt to understand the full argument — just a drive to score points. Just a drive to protect their identity (which they apparently thought I was threatening?).

After a while, I stopped expecting genuine dialogue in the comments. Not because people are bad, but because people online don’t respond to your actual words; they respond to the version of you that exists in their mind. And in political content, that version is usually exaggerated, simplified, and engineered for conflict.

Ironically, when I did get thoughtful comments, they came from viewers who clearly watched the entire video and actually wanted to engage, not attack. Those comments made the entire year worth it.

But the overall lesson?
Don’t create for the debaters. Create for the people who listen.

3. Traveling While Creating Content Changed the Way I View Censorship

One unexpected part of my year as a creator was how much travel influenced my perspective — especially my perspective on political speech and censorship.

This year I traveled to Italy, Turkey, Ireland, New York City, and South-Central Texas. Each place has its own culture, its own attitude toward politics, and its own level of comfort with public criticism of leadership or government.

But the biggest shift came from my trip to Turkey.

Leading up to the trip, I was honestly nervous. I had publicly criticized President Erdoğan in past videos and posts, pointing out authoritarian tendencies, democratic backsliding, and the erosion of free press protections. And even though I’m just a small creator, I still had that little voice in the back of my mind whispering:

“What if they flag your passport?”

“What if they pull you aside?”

“What if they detain you for something you said online?”

I texted a few friends before the trip and warned them that I might be visiting a place where I could be kidnapped by the government. I asked them to look after my dog and take care of my family if I died. They all responded — seemingly in unison — with something to the effect of, “you’re a f*cking idiot Justin LMAO.”

It sounds dramatic, but Turkey has detained larger political commentators. And when you create political content — even as commentary, even in good faith — you become aware of how different the world can look depending on who’s in power. And when you travel internationally, that awareness becomes far more real.

While exploring Istanbul, I met a woman named Zay. After some conversation, she told our group about the political unrest in the city — namely the protests and outrage over the mayor, Ekrem İmamoğlu, being jailed for political reasons by President Erdoğan. She explained, and I later researched and confirmed, that Erdoğan has weaponized the justice system to silence İmamoğlu, who is seen as a strong opponent in a future presidential race.

Standing in Istanbul, walking through districts where journalists have literally been arrested for criticizing leadership, I understood something that I had only understood abstractly before:

Freedom of speech is not just an American value — it’s a privilege that varies wildly depending on which border you cross.

The trip changed me. It made me both more grateful for what I can say and more aware of how fragile that ability is. It also made me think about how creators in less democratic countries navigate their platforms carefully, choosing their words strategically, knowing that a video isn’t just content — it’s a risk.

Seeing the global landscape firsthand reshaped my approach to political commentary. I’m more thoughtful now, not out of fear, but out of respect. Not every country lets you press “upload” without consequences. And that reality deepened my understanding of the responsibility — and luxury — of doing this work.