Building a Creator-First Future

Author(s): Scott Douglas Jacobsen

Publication (Outlet/Website): The Good Men Project

Publication Date (yyyy/mm/dd): 2025/07/16

Ashley Darling, CEO and cofounder of Neptune, has a deep conversation on identity, platform ethics, and building a radically inclusive tech ecosystem. Neptune, a female-led social media startup based in Phoenix, Arizona, emphasizes community, equity, and autonomy—hiring human moderators instead of relying on AI. With over 20 years of experience in content creation, fashion, and influencer marketing, Darling champions LGBTQ+, BIPOC, and women-led entrepreneurship. The interview explores challenges marginalized creators face, the balance between individualism and community, and the platform’s commitment to digital freedom and nuance in moderation. From Dylan Mulvaney’s public transition to the erosion of pronoun visibility in U.S. policy, Darling speaks candidly about culture, vulnerability, and empowerment. Neptune stands as a disruptor in tech, reshaping how creators connect, express, and thrive in an increasingly politicized digital landscape.

Scott Douglas Jacobsen: Today, we’re here with Ashley Darling, the CEO and cofounder of Neptune, a female-led social media app built to empower creators by prioritizing human connection over algorithmic control. Neptune positions itself as a platform that hires human moderators and curators instead of relying solely on AI, emphasizing safety, creativity, and community.

With over two decades of experience across content creation, fashion, and influencer marketing, Ashley leads the movement for creator-first innovation and digital freedom. Based in Phoenix, Arizona, she advocates for LGBTQ+, BIPOC, and women-led entrepreneurship in the tech space.

Neptune is reshaping social networking by giving creators visibility, autonomy, and monetization tools. It stands as a disruptor and thought leader in social media startups. Ashley is working to build a digital ecosystem where authenticity thrives and creators are prioritized over metrics. Learn more at http://www.theneptuneapp.com, or follow her on Instagram at @the.ashley.darling.

Thank you for joining me today. As a tech entrepreneur and advocate for creator autonomy, how do you view models of gender parity—such as Iceland’s government-backed equality measures—compared to the challenges marginalized creators face in global digital spaces?

Darling: Wow, that’s such a layered issue. It’s frustrating, mainly based in the U.S., to compare how identity is approached in places like Iceland. There’s more collective respect- a “live and let live” attitude. In contrast, identity can feel adversarial in America, like someone else’s self-expression threatens your own.

That’s a deeply ingrained part of American individualism. It creates tension even within marginalized communities. I want to be careful not to speak for the Black community or other communities of colour, especially because I’m white-presenting. But within the queer community, and especially among trans folks, there are often internalized expectations—like Are you passing? Or how far into your transition are you?—that unfairly gatekeeps identity.

In the disabled community, which I’m part of due to chronic illness, there’s sometimes a sense that unless you’re visibly struggling, your identity is questioned. It’s like we need to prove suffering to feel validated. That can create a toxic hierarchy of legitimacy: I’ve experienced more, so I’m more entitled to this identity.

Jacobsen: Yes. I agree—American culture heavily emphasizes individualism, sometimes at the cost of community. Many Americans agree with this opinion. In fact, in many university-level courses, especially in sociology or cross-cultural psychology, you’ll often have entire sessions in a 15-week course dedicated to exploring collectivist versus individualist cultures. For example, China is broadly categorized as collectivist, and the United States as individualist. These are broad generalizations, of course, but they hold a degree of factual accuracy when viewed at scale. Individuals vary, but cultural frameworks influence how identity is perceived and expressed.

I see this happening, particularly in how people relate to their identities within accepted American social categories. There’s a kind of diffusion of the “Self”—capital S—becomes so porous that when someone else’s identity, which falls into a “not-me” category, begins to bleed into your conceptual boundaries, it can feel destabilizing. This is true for some heterosexual people, for some trans people, and for anyone heavily invested in their identity structure. I think people need a bit more cosmopolitanism—a broader view of how fluid and contextual identity is.

Darling: I agree.

Jacobsen: So let’s move to your world—app development and tech innovation, especially in spaces shaped by AI and the creator economy. These are much more fluid environments compared to traditional workplaces or industries. How do people navigating fluid or evolving identities, like someone who is trans and transitioning while building a product or launching a platform, cope in that space?

For example, they’re at a stage in their transition where they do what feels right for them, and their audience sees that process unfold in real time. This is a vulnerable space, mainly when people are used to engaging with static or binary identity presentations.

I’m reminded of a more mainstream example: Caitlyn Jenner. Of course, she was a famous Olympian long before her transition became public. While there’s more visibility and acceptance today, there is still significant pushback, and for creators, that pushback can occur mid-platform development, right in the middle of audience-building and content creation. For people not accustomed to shifting identities, it can be confusing. It can be painful for the individual undergoing the transition when others do not recognize or respect who they are becoming.

Darling: A good example of this, and whether you love her or not, is Dylan Mulvaney, an important figure. She’s a popular trans creator who began building a platform before and during her transition. Her journey has played out mainly in public, and she’s faced enormous support and aggressive backlash. It’s an intense spotlight, but it shows how creators can bring audiences along if they’re authentic, vulnerable, and consistent.

So, Dylan was male-presenting. She was assigned male at birth, and all of her early content reflected who she was before her transition. What made her path so impactful is that, unlike some other creators who pull back, closing the curtain, going quiet, and returning post-transition, she brought her audience with her every step.

That’s more similar to what Caitlyn Jenner did not do. Caitlyn essentially disappeared from the public eye for a period. People weren’t seeing her out and about. There were vague reports and whispers—she was having work done—and people speculated: Is this just a vain man obsessed with his looks? Or is Caitlyn transitioning? It was ambiguous. The public didn’t know what was happening and was left to guess until there was a big, orchestrated reveal.

What younger generations, particularly on platforms like TikTok and Instagram, are doing differently is integrating their journey into their content. Instead of making themselves the center of a celebrity-style “reveal,” they involve their audience. Dylan Mulvaney is an excellent example of that. Even before she came out as trans, she had a large queerfollowing because she was open about being queer.

So when she eventually came out and began transitioning, her audience was already emotionally invested in her. She documented everything through her “Days of Girlhood” series. She came out publicly, said “I identify as a woman,” and invited people to witness her exploring what girlhood means to her—things like getting her nails done for the first time, growing her hair out, wearing a dress, and embracing experiences commonly associated with girlhood.

That vulnerability sparked much support—and much backlash. Many Americans, especially those unfamiliar or uncomfortable with trans identities, reacted strongly to the idea of someone assigned male at birth claiming girlhood. There was discourse both from within and outside the queer community.

Some queer and trans individuals criticized her, saying, “This isn’t what a trans woman should be or look like.” Others, especially from outside the community, felt she was infringing on what they saw as “real” girlhood, saying things like, “This takes womanhood away from me.”

Jacobsen: So it becomes a personal journey and a public and cultural flashpoint. And there’s so much nuance. I’ve even been talking with a few gender-affirming surgeons lately, and they’ve pointed out how fast the medical techniques are evolving. For example, bottom surgery today compared to 20 years ago is radically different—more advanced, more precise, and more accessible in some cases.

Even things like the prominence of an Adam’s apple, which used to be a significant barrier to being perceived as female, are now more manageable with advances in facial feminization surgery. So even what we consider “passable” is changing—socially and technically. It’s not just about cultural fluency or presentation—it’s also about rapidly evolving medical options.

They pointed out that traditional Adam’s apple reduction surgery is much riskier because the surgeon has to go in through the mouth and work downward, similar to how you would approach certain cancers in the lymph nodes of the throat. It’s a more invasive procedure.

But now, some surgeons are using a less invasive method where they go in from behind and shave the thyroid cartilage down internally. Because it’s done from inside, there’s no visible external scar, which can be significant for people concerned about presentation.

That procedure reduces the prominence of a stereotypically male feature—the Adam’s apple—without leaving a mark. It doesn’t fundamentally change the voice—that’s an entirely different process—but it can help someone feel more comfortable in how they’re perceived.

Darling: However, there’s something significant to say about this: the idea of “passing” or even fully medically transitioning is, in itself, a privilege. Many people, especially in marginalized communities, cannot afford gender-affirming surgeries or have to fight their insurance providers over coverage.

Access to surgeons who specialize in these procedures and the resources to pursue them is a form of privilege. However, reaching a point of gender expression that aligns with your sense of self, whatever “passing” means to you.

Jacobsen: That’s a significant issue in the U.S. right now. Unfortunately, we’re seeing many states move to restrict or eliminate access to gender-affirming care, which takes that possibility away from many people.

Someone recently brought this up to me—I am a physical therapist based in Texas, so I am closer to you than to me. I am probably working in an even more difficult state environment than Arizona. However, Arizona has its complications, too, especially outside the cities.

That physical therapist in Texas mentioned something critical: with the current legislative rollbacks, some of these laws aren’t even directly about the trans community, but the effects will impact them. Because of the structure of these healthcare policies, broad restrictions in medical practice or insurance coverage can hit trans people especially hard.

The impact is real. I’ve spoken with doctors who have left the United States to practice in Canada because they’re treated better there. That is one layer. Another issue is that people don’t want to immigrate to the U.S. as doctors anymore, not because they hate trans people, but because they do not want to work in an environment where medical professionals are mistreated, underpaid, or overregulated. That has a downstream impact on care across the board.

And then there’s a more nuanced point that someone recently made to me—something I hadn’t fully considered. Due to fear and social pressure, we’re now seeing some people detransition, at least insofar as it’s possible for them. Can you discuss how that might impact the creator space and representation more broadly?

Darling: Yes. I had an acquaintance—let me use his current preferred pronouns—he/him. He was assigned male at birth, and I met him about ten years ago. At that time, he had begun transitioning from male to female. He had gotten fairly far along in his transition. He had undergone top surgery, was on hormones, and was considering facial feminization surgery. He wasn’t a primary content creator, but he had a presence online, and I followed his journey.

As is often the case, many people are watching these journeys silently. They may not comment, they may not “like” or repost. Still, they’re there—quiet observers who might be closeted themselves, or afraid to engage publicly due to fear of being outed at work, school, or within their families.

What happened in his case was tragic. He began experiencing intense pushback from people in his immediate circle. He was bullied. The costs—financial, emotional, and social—kept adding up. Eventually, he made the heartbreaking decision to detransition. And I say “heartbreaking” because, from everything he had shared, it was clear this was not what he wanted, but rather what he felt was safest.

So, he reclaimed his he/him pronouns, began dressing more masculinely again, and essentially went back into the closet, not out of personal regret, but out of social necessity.

This had a profound impact on those of us who followed his story. We were devastated for him. But beyond that, his detransition planted a seed of fear in others who were watching: Am I next? Will this happen to me if I keep going?

It introduces a chilling effect into the community, especially online, where people often seek affirmation and connection. This applies to public figures, too, like Caitlyn Jenner, who, despite her visibility and privilege, still became a political and cultural lightning rod. The implication becomes: If even someone famous and wealthy gets targeted, what chance do I have?

Caitlyn Jenner went through a complete transition and came out publicly, but since then she’s made some incredibly harmful statements about the queer and trans community—even though she is a trans woman. It’s disheartening. That kind of rhetoric undermines trust and causes real harm, especially within marginalized communities. When someone from within the community walks back their identity or aligns with narratives that invalidate that identity, even if framed as a safety decision, it sparks fear, confusion, and frustration.

Just the other day—maybe yesterday or the day before—a prominent lesbian content creator on TikTok posted a video saying she had a spiritual “conversion moment.” She claimed that God came to her in a vision and told her she needed to stop being gay. She said she woke up from that vision and was no longer a lesbian. She had converted and is now identifying as Christian.

The response was intense. She received a flood of support from conservative users who see that as a “success story”—as if sexuality is something that can be chosen or changed. But for her former audience, particularly queer folks—predominantly Black, queer people who had seen her as a proud, visible figure—it was devastating.

When someone who’s publicly deconstructed their identity then turns around and says, “Actually, I was wrong. I’m going back,” it sends a painful message. First of all, that’s not how sexual orientation works. And second, it delegitimizes the experiences of people still struggling for acceptance. It makes everyone look bad in that moment, even if that wasn’t her intent.

Jacobsen: Yes, and what you’re describing touches on something more profound—something structural. People are individuals. However, when the legal system or the social climate is built to treat people based on collective identity, anyone who belongs, whether they want to or not, feels the impact of one person’s action within that group.

So when someone publicly detransitions or disavows their queerness, people say, “This hurts all of us.” That’s the paradox of representation and fame. Your identity becomes a symbolic battleground. And even if it’s just one person’s journey, the consequences ripple across an entire community.

Darling: That plays out constantly in social media, where there’s an intense push-and-pull between individualism and community.

Something we’re mindful of at Neptune is balance. Social media originally promised connection, but it became standardized and impersonal somewhere along the way. I think back to the MySpace era, when people had unique pages—they coded their backgrounds, curated their profiles, and truly expressed themselves. Individuality and identity were embedded in the platform.

But then came Apple’s rise—and I believe their design aesthetic influenced everything underneath it. Everything became clean, minimal, white, and uniform—one button, one style. And suddenly, everyone’s profiles started to look the same. That sense of personal expression was stripped away.

We’re trying to return to that individuality ethos within a supportive community framework. People need to feel seen as themselves and safe as part of a collective. That’s the challenge and the opportunity in designing platforms today.

Because of that shift, we saw a pendulum swing toward hyper-individualism, where suddenly, your Instagram feed had to be perfectly curated, aesthetically pleasing, and highly differentiated. You needed to stand out at a glance. The idea was that someone could land on your profile and instantly get a visual snapshot of who you were. However, by focusing so intensely on individualism, we have lost the social part of social media.

One of the things we’re trying to do at Neptune is bring that sense of community back. We’re working to encourage creators to support each other—to rebuild that communal framework. Admittedly, we’re still early in this journey and don’t have a full suite of community tools built into the platform yet. Those features are technically complex and only work well when you already have many users.

What we have done, though, is launch a robust Discord server. It’s already becoming a dynamic space where people are forming real communities. Without a better phrase, we just threw everyone into the same server. We said: Look, we’re here with shared values—equity, community, and yes, the ability to make a living so we can feed ourselves, our families, and our cats. Find your people. And they did.

Well, some of us live large with two cats [Laughing], but seriously—they found their people. We’re seeing these pods of community form. People are organizing their meetups, even offline. It’s powerful to watch.

It proves that you can embrace individualism without rejecting community. You don’t have to say, “I belong to no one, I’m not part of anything,” to express your uniqueness. The two aren’t mutually exclusive.

For many Americans, that’s a radical idea—a community without a mob mentality. It’s healthy. It doesn’t strip you of your individuality. The humanist community has a great way of expressing this balance in its declarations. They affirm individual freedom, which leans toward the libertarian side, and social responsibility, which leans toward a collectivist or socialist view. It’s about the proper balance between the two.

Jacobsen: That’s a vital line you’re drawing—between identity, perception, and coexistence. I’ve tried to think through this dynamic before, and maybe I can parse it like this—bear with me.

So, on one hand, you have the individual, how a person sees. On the other hand, you have the community, which sees that person, however it’s going to, regardless of accuracy. Sometimes, that perception is neutral, occasionally harmful, and sometimes affirming.

And then there’s this third hand, because there might be three hands here [Laughing], which is respecting the coexistence of individual self-concept alongside diverse social contexts. You can hold your identity while recognizing that others will have their own opinions about it, and those opinions may or may not affect you directly.

It’s the reality of living in a pluralistic society. Whether you’re a white-bearded evangelical guy in Arizona who enjoys chopping wood, or someone who once took Amtrak and overheard a person saying, “I don’t want no weirdos next to me,”—and they’re saying prefacing that with “I’m Black, I’m trans, and I’m seven months pregnant”—everyone is navigating identity both internally and externally.

Darling: People carry their own stories and self-concepts; sometimes those get affirmed, and sometimes they don’t. But holding space for those realities is where real community starts.

Jacobsen: You can have policy or legal frameworks that affect individuals based on their belonging, generally speaking, to a group. When that happens, it’s no longer just someone’s random opinion—it becomes personal, because it can change your material reality. That’s when it matters.

Now, where it doesn’t impact me directly is in religious opinion. For example, I know people who think, “Scott doesn’t realize it, but he’s a child of God,” and so on. That doesn’t affect me—I don’t care. But if someone gets in my face with it aggressively, then yes, that’s when it crosses into personal impact.

Where it becomes severe is when policy changes, or laws are passed, that target marginalized communities. Take white supremacists, for instance. Many of them have grotesque views about trans people or LGBTQ+ folks in general. Some of them deny trans identities altogether. But suppose they’re ranting in a basement somewhere. In that case, it’s different from them influencing legislation that strips rights away from real people. That’s the critical distinction.

So, in the creator space—and especially for LGBTQ+ and BIPOC creators—how do you advocate for people, or help them advocate for themselves, despite ignorant or hateful opinions? At the same time, how do you build collective power so that when discriminatory policy does arise, you can respond effectively—reverse it, or push for stronger, more inclusive protections? I hope that made sense.

Darling: Yes, it does. That’s a thoughtful and layered question—let me think through it briefly.

This is one of the ongoing challenges. Neptune is a private company that operates in a very public space. So we’ve built our policies around giving people the maximum freedom within the legal framework we’re bound to as a U.S.-based business.

The difficulty comes when people assume their perception of rights applies across the board, especially around speech. A policy written to protect one person’s rights might not work for someone else or conflict with another community’s safety and dignity. Take freedom of speech as an example. Whenever I go live—whether on TikTok, Meta, talking about Neptune—someone inevitably says, “This is a free speech platform, right?” And my answer is yes, but also no.

We’re not the U.S. government. We’re a private company. The First Amendment protects your speech from government interference. It doesn’t guarantee you a platform on private networks. So no, you can’t come into our space and spout racial slurs or spread hate speech and then claim First Amendment protection. That’s not how it works. People will try to twist that and say, “Well then, you’re not a free speech platform.” But they say, “I want a space where I can say harmful things without consequences.” That’s not freedom. That’s a license.

At Neptune, we try to create a space where everyone, especially LGBTQ+ and BIPOC creators, can speak freely without fear of harassment or violence. Freedom means protection, equity, and community, not unregulated chaos.

It comes down to how people interpret what they believe they have the freedom to do. It ties back to that ongoing tension between the individual and the collective. If someone thinks they have the right to say whatever they want without consequences, I’ve said this before, and I’ll repeat it—Neptune is not the place for you.

We intentionally build a healthy community, which means continuously reviewing our policies. Our community guidelines have been peer-reviewed by a diverse panel of folks from various backgrounds who looked them over and, generally speaking, agreed that they work pretty well for now.

But in practice, things get more complex. Someone will inevitably come to us and say, “You took my content down unfairly. That violated my free speech.” Our role is to evaluate those claims, stay flexible, and ensure our policies serve the whole. We can’t build our policies solely around individual preferences—they must be based on the collective experience.

That’s why diversity is essential—gender diversity, BIPOC representation, disability inclusion, or more. The majority experience isn’t representative of everyone. We need as many voices in the room as possible, with real seats at the table, saying, “This is how this policy impacts me.” That’s the kind of feedback we want.

Now, in terms of policy at the state or federal level, we hope to grow into a platform that can advocate on behalf of our users—particularly BIPOC, queer, and disabled communities. When legislation affects people’s ability to move freely online or talk about their lived experiences, we want to speak up for their right to be here and be heard.

And here’s the thing—we get to decide. As a private company, we can determine what goes on our platform and what doesn’t.

A clear example of what we don’t want to replicate is TikTok. Right now, creators are being suppressed left and right. Say something against the president? Against MAGA? Anti-conservative in tone? It gets pulled, muted, or flagged for violations—deeply concerning.

No law says you can’t express political dissent, but some platforms act like there is. We aim to operate as our entity, offering users maximum individual freedom within a framework that protects the community. It’s a tricky balance—especially in America—but we’re committed to trying to strike it.

Jacobsen: Right, and that’s the paradox in American digital culture—maximum individual freedom coexisting with the needs of a shared space. You’re managing that tension transparently, which is rare. Here’s a funny—and sad—footnote. It’s been reported that Elon Musk reengineered the algorithm on X (formerly Twitter) because he was upset that his posts weren’t getting as many views as he thought they should. Patton Oswalt made the point that it’s just… sad. Like, when is enough attention enough?

After all the chaos around attempts to slow down OpenAI, Sam Altman critiqued Musk. Altman said something to the effect of, ‘He’s insecure.’ The interviewer asked, ‘Really?’ Altman responded, ‘No—honestly. His whole life is about that.’Of course, that’s just one person’s opinion, but it carries weight. There’s qualitative truth in it.

Anyway, here’s where I want to go with the closing question:

We often talk about moderation and policies in terms of protecting marginalized communities—BIPOC, LGBTQ+, and disabled folks—from harmful content. But what happens when a person from a marginalized community uses derogatory language toward someone in what is perceived as a “majority” group? For example, what if a queer user uses a slur against a cisgender, heterosexual, white Christian woman? Or what if a BIPOC creator makes a generalizing or inflammatory comment about white people?

That kind of reverse case isn’t discussed as much. So how do you handle that? Especially in a context where people often try to apply the First Amendment across all platforms—even though, as we’ve said, that’s a misunderstanding of how free speech works in private spaces. So: How do you finesse your policies to handle those cases—when someone from a historically marginalized identity says something that has real consequences for someone else? And how do you distinguish that from reclaiming slurs within a community?

Darling: That’s such a thoughtful and essential question. As we do at Neptune, a diverse team of human moderators is crucial. There’s much nuance to it.

We had this discussion early on, specifically around community slurs. Take the N-word, for example. It’s used in particular ways within the Black community. Many Black folks are comfortable using that term with each other, but anyone outside that community using it is wrong no matter the explanation. It’s a matter of context, history, and shared experience.

The same is true in the queer community. There are words I might use with another queer person—maybe someone who’s a close friend—that would be entirely inappropriate for someone else to say. There’s a layer of cultural permission and proximity that matters. So our approach is not to have one-size-fits-all rules. Instead, we look at intent, impact, and context. Was it targeted harassment? Was it intra-community discourse? Was it satire, or reclaiming, or something else? We should deliberate on how we handle that.

Of course, it’s never perfect. But we’d rather scrutinize these situations, especially when identity and culture are involved, than default to binary enforcement that doesn’t consider real life. And so having the ability to source that nuance—to say, “This doesn’t need to be removed because it’s not derogatory, it’s accepted vernacular within the creator’s community”—is enormous. No other social media platform is doing that.

However, if a straight person were to enter a queer person’s space and use those exact words as slurs or spread hate speech, there would be punitive action taken—against the bully, not the original creator. That’s a key difference in building Neptune compared to the others.

Platforms like TikTok and Meta have openly acknowledged that they suppress BIPOC, queer, and disabled users’ content—not necessarily because they’re targeting them intentionally, but because they don’t want to deal with the moderation challenges that arise. Their logic has been, “If we suppress their visibility, they won’t become targets.”

Of course, this is a systemic erasure. What we’ve done reasonably well so far—and it’s become this fascinating experiment in brand and culture—is build Neptune to become its own culture. The brand is the culture.

By nature, a lot of highly conservative users don’t feel at home in our ecosystem. That’s not because we exclude anyone—we don’t—but because the culture is unapologetically BIPOC, queer, disabled, and yes, proudly weird. We lovingly refer to ourselves as the island of misfit toys. Most of us haven’t fit in anywhere else.

So when people who don’t resonate with that come in, they often self-select out. It’ll be interesting to see how that plays out as we scale, how the culture evolves, and how our community standards are tested in practice.

We also empower creators with tools to moderate their content. For example, if someone comes into a Black creator’s space and leaves a racist comment or hate speech—and our moderation systems, whether AI or human, don’t catch it right away—that creator can still delete or report the comment directly.

This is where human moderation is crucial. If someone leaves a comment that technically isn’t flagged by AI, because the language might not hit the hate-speech threshold, but a human moderator sees it and says, “No, no. That term carries historical or coded significance,” then we act.

Jacobsen: Triple parentheses kind of stuff. “Globalist.” “Internationalist.” These terms have meaning, and dog whistles matter.

Darling: So that’s how we’re planning to handle these situations. And look, it’s all a big experiment, because we’re learning. We’re committed to building something different. Many other platforms have been bland in their branding and messaging. They say, “We’re for everyone.”

Sure, we say that too—but here’s the thing: if you’re in our space and don’t subscribe to our values—like equity, community, and enterprise—you’ll probably feel a little… ostracized. 

The word equity alone triggers many people in the U.S. Some hear that and immediately go, “Oh, that’s woke. I want no part of it.” Seeing how that all plays out as we grow will be interesting.

So far, over 5,000 people have joined our beta, and we haven’t had any real issues. Beta users are usually early adopters, so they’re often more value-aligned. Once we open to the general public, you get the bad actors who come in to test boundaries. They’ll upload explicit content, spam, or try to see how far they can push the rules. That’s part of scaling.

But honestly, we’ve been lucky so far to have a fantastic, supportive community. Seeing how that holds up when we expand beyond beta will be interesting.

Jacobsen: Many companies and organizations beta-test AI, mainly narrow, task-specific AI that’s more sophisticated than basic algorithms but still reasonably simple. One method they use is keyword filtering. And there have been some hilarious and problematic examples of that. I remember a case involving Doge where content was flagged because of the word gay, about the Enola Gay, the WWII aircraft. That’s not precisely a contradiction—it’s more of an analogy. But could you see something like that happening on Neptune if keyword filtering catches a word used innocently or historically?

Darling: Theoretically, sure. But we’re cautious about what we filter. For example, we’re not filtering out words like gay, queer, or lesbian. That would never happen.

So no one could come in and say, “Oh my god, that’s so queer,” and get flagged just because the AI doesn’t understand context. I mean, could someone use a word like queer in a retro way—like people did in the ’50s? Maybe. But I don’t see a viable use case for that problem. Still, hypothetically, I get your point.

That’s precisely why we don’t rely solely on AI moderation. We use AI to catch obvious issues—basic keyword and behavioural pattern stuff—but then we have human moderators who step in for review. If the AI flags something and a creator says, “Hey, that’s not fair,” they can appeal it. A human moderator reviews the case, and if it was wrongly penalized, we fix it. The violation is wiped, and the account is restored to normal.

Jacobsen: That’s the right way to do it. These systems are built on current iterations of human language, which is constantly changing. So having AI makes things more efficient and cost-effective, but it’s not infallible.

Darling: That’s why we’re committed to having diverse human moderators. It’s like having a second layer of cultural context—what you might call horizontal activation. These folks understand nuance, subtext, and cultural references. AI isn’t there yet. So we need that human texture to keep things fair, inclusive, and responsive. Human moderators can grasp the nuance of how something is perceived. We’re not applying a flat tier for speech—context matters. That’s a huge differentiator.

Jacobsen: So, what else should I export here? When you talk about platform design and moderation, do you see a fundamental distinction in approach between entrepreneurs—those dealing with the software or application layer—and technologists or engineers who are working behind the scenes? In other words, do you think there’s a different philosophy between the front-facing founders or brand-centred creators and the backend developers—the proverbial “square-glasses”computer science crowd?

Darling: There’s a difference. One is front-facing, and one is back-end. The approach varies depending on the individual, of course. Still, entrepreneurs and brand-builders generally think about voice, values, and user relationships. At the same time, engineers are focused on building the tools to make that possible, ideally without friction.

Jacobsen: What questions do you think people should be asking about platforms like Neptune but haven’t yet? Are there taboos or unspoken areas you’re navigating?

Darling: Depending on the political climate, a lot of what we’re doing might be considered countercultural or even subversive.

For example, in our current U.S. administration, there have been significant rollbacks around pronoun visibility. In many government settings, people can no longer share their pronouns proactively. So on Neptune, we’ve made it a point to include space on profiles where users can share their pronouns if they choose to. It’s optional—but available. That small decision becomes meaningful when the broader landscape tries to erase it.

And until that becomes outright illegal, we’ll keep offering that space. We’ll adapt the design if necessary—“This is a place for anything you want people to know about you.” What people choose to put in that space is up to them.

Another area is press freedom. American media is experiencing a major credibility crisis; many people no longer trust mainstream outlets. Our user base, in particular, leans heavily on independent journalists to stay informed. Everything here is values-based—people follow journalists and creators who share their worldview.

So we’re actively exploring ways to support those independent voices. One feature we’re testing is geotagged event streaming. Say you’re an independent journalist on the scene of something happening—you could go live and tag your location. If users have alerts set within a 15-mile radius, they’d get a notification: “This is happening now. Do you want to watch the live stream?”

That could be incredibly powerful, especially in the context of things like ICE raids or civil protests. We don’t want to dictate how people use these tools, but given everything happening in the U.S., people will naturally adapt the technology to their needs.

Tools intended for lighthearted sharing—community events, art, creativity—could evolve into tools for survival, journalism, or real-time activism. Humans are adaptive. They’ll use whatever they can to survive, connect, and stay informed when pushed. We’re building with that in mind—even if the original intention of a feature was something much more casual.

Should other methods of connectivity be shut off—made inaccessible, restricted, etc.—there’s always the underlying fear, especially as a business, of pissing off the government. There’s this lingering anxiety: What if they legislate that all social media apps must follow XYZ guidelines? Or function only in such-and-such a manner?

But not building Neptune out of fear was never an option for me. People often ask, “Are you scared? Are you worried you’ll get banned or draw the administration’s attention because you’re carving out space for people they’re actively marginalizing—or worse?” And yes—it’s scary. But it’s also exciting. There’s something defiant and hopeful about doing it anyway.

Jacobsen: Thank you for the opportunity and your time, Ashley.

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