So, it’s been about two years now since the wider internet collectively realised that Wilbur was… not such a good person.

That period was messy. Confusing. Emotionally loaded in a way that only parasocial spaces can really be. For a lot of people, myself included, it wasn’t just about learning uncomfortable facts about a creator. It was about reconciling memories, comfort, and identity with the sudden need to re-evaluate who we had been listening to, watching, and trusting.

For as long as I’ve been online, I’ve heard the phrase “separate the art from the artist.” It’s one of those sayings that sounds simple until you actually have to live it. So, for the sake of this piece, that’s what I’m going to try to do.

Because regardless of how things ended up, Wilbur’s music and videos mattered to me. They mattered to a lot of people. They arrived at a time when many of us were lonely, struggling, or just trying to survive our own thoughts. His songs had a way of putting words to feelings I didn’t yet know how to articulate, and his videos created a sense of warmth and familiarity that felt rare during some genuinely dark periods of my life.

One video in particular ended up changing my trajectory online entirely.

That video gave rise to We Shall Rise.

WSR wasn’t just a community or a server or a fandom offshoot. It was a meeting point. A collision of people who probably never would have crossed paths otherwise. Through it, I met some of my closest friends, people who shaped how I think, how I create, and how I exist online even now. I also met some of my worst enemies there, people who taught me difficult lessons about trust, power, and conflict in digital spaces.

But even those negative experiences were formative.

WSR was chaotic, imperfect, and deeply human. It was a place where creativity flourished alongside drama, where collaboration and conflict coexisted, and where many of us learned who we were when given a platform, a voice, or even just an audience.

Looking back, I don’t feel the need to defend the artist, nor do I feel the need to erase the impact the art had on my life. Both things can be true at once. The person can be deeply flawed, even harmful, and the work can still have been meaningful at a specific moment in time.

This isn’t an attempt to rewrite history or excuse behaviour. It’s simply an acknowledgment of how influence works, how communities form, and how personal growth often comes from complicated, uncomfortable beginnings.

If nothing else, WSR stands as a reminder that the things we build together can outgrow their origins. That communities can persist even when the figure at the center falls away. And that sometimes, the most important part of a creation isn’t who started it, but who stayed, who learned, and who became something else because of it.