A week or so ago, my friend Steph sent me an article with a warning that included two words I’d never heard used together before: Zoom and Bomb. Zoom is the popular virtual meeting app that Cuddle Sanctuary has been using for years to deliver our free monthly classes. To “bomb” a Zoom meeting is to purposefully and maliciously interrupt it.

I wasn’t too worried. I figured that the World Wide Web is so big and we’re such a small enterprise. What are the chances? Still, I learned a few defensive moves and practiced them. I knew how to “mute” everyone’s microphones all at once. And I felt especially cool that I could quickly remove someone who didn’t belong in the meeting. 

I was ready.

At our Wednesday online event, I was surprised at the jump in attendance. The week before, there were 20 guests. On this occasion, there were 31. Instead of being wary, I felt like a marketing rock star. “Our events are really catching on!”

Louis was facilitating. He was guiding the Opening Circle when I saw something off. At our Rated G event, an attendee’s video image turned into a photo of naked genitals. “Aha, a troll!” I thought. I removed him from the meeting within a few seconds and pumped my hands in the air with triumph. He’s gone! I did it!

He wasn’t alone.

That’s when it got ugly. It wasn’t just one guy, it was three, four, maybe five in an orchestrated visual and auditory barrage of hate speech. When I have nightmares, what makes them awful is the loss of control. This was like that – a metaphorical and technical loss of control. Cortisol – the stress hormone – was pumping through my veins. Panic. The things I tried to do to make it stop failed. Despair.

Safe space

I take special care to assure that Cuddle Sanctuary events are guided with expertise so that attendees can relax into our capable hands. My hope is that people who have experienced trauma around touch can trust us to create a safe place to learn, grow and experiment. That’s what made this violation of our meeting especially shitty. Louis said that though he knows he did nothing wrong, it felt like a failure. I get that.

A day of action

I spent all of the next day working to right the wrong. I contacted each guest to see how they were doing after what happened. I researched Zoom’s security settings and met with the Cuddle Sanctuary team to create our new safety protocol. But one of the most important activities of the day was my conversation with Louis. I had to apologize.

An experienced moderator

Louis had years of experience moderating online games and groups. As the event leader, he was methodically working to bring the room back to safety. Unaware of what Louis was doing – in an act of desperation – I shut down the meeting. 

Louis was gracious. We talked about our roles. We talked about my brain’s fight or flight response. And we discussed how we might handle a situation like that in the future. Then we got to business and brainstormed how to make our next Virtual Cuddle Sanctuary even better! It was a great conversation.

A day of tenderness

Once the time sensitive activities were complete, I noticed deeper feelings surface on the second day after the incident. Yes, I’m a business woman with 49 years of life experience under my belt. But I think we all have an inner child. Mine is an innocent girl who saw mean things and whose feelings were hurt. I shed tears and felt rage. I’m so grateful to Fei’s daily dance breaks. With screams and movement, I was able to move those feelings out of my body (while also keeping my neighbors guessing.)

Who are the Zoom Bombers?

One of the trolls who joined the meeting called himself Michael. What’s Michael’s story? Why does he do this to people? What could I say to get through to someone like him? These questions can be confounding for a person like me who sometimes wishes that love and hugs could solve the world’s ills. 

But I am not that naive. My therapist has been working with me to stop taking responsibility for things outside my control. If Michael and I were in a room, I doubt I could change his mind about his choices. Whatever happened to Michael isn’t my fault, and I can’t fix him. 

I can’t, but maybe they can.

The success of Alcoholics Anonymous depends on the idea that recovering alcoholics have the best chance at getting through to active alcoholics because they’ve “been there.” That’s why it was heartening for me to read about a nonprofit called Life After Hate. Their website describes their mission:

“Founded by former extremists, we are committed to helping people leave the violent far-right to connect with humanity and lead compassionate lives.”

My kind of people! They give me hope. I was impressed by their thoughtful blog that describes how the COVID-19 crisis impacts former extremists.

Onward

My life was touched directly by hate last week. It was painful but not insurmountable. I can’t fix it, but I’m grateful there are qualified people dedicating themselves to trying. The incident gave me a chance to grow, bond with my team and be a better leader. 

Onward!