The recent lawsuit against Ava Grace May in Trumbull v. May offers a sobering lesson about the real-world consequences of social media accusations. As someone who has followed digital creator disputes for years, I find this case particularly instructive—not because the legal outcome was surprising, but because May's handling of the situation represents a masterclass in self-destructive decision-making.

Let me be clear from the outset: I have no dog in this fight. I don't follow either Levi Trumbull's YouTube channel or Ava Grace May's social media accounts. But as a legal observer and someone concerned about the intersection of online speech and defamation law, this case demands attention.

The facts, drawn from publicly filed court documents, paint a troubling picture. In September 2025, May posted to Instagram accusing Trumbull of stalking and harassing her and her family "for months." Under Maryland law, these aren't just insults—they're accusations of specific criminal conduct carrying potential prison time. Stalking in Maryland is punishable by up to five years imprisonment. When you accuse someone of a crime on a public platform, you're not just "venting" or "sharing your truth." You're making a factual claim that can be tested against objective reality.

What makes May's accusations particularly problematic isn't just their falsity (as the complaint meticulously documents), but their internal contradictions. Less than twelve hours after claiming Trumbull's conduct terrified her, May posted that the YouTube video Levi made about her, (which triggered her defamatory post) "did not hurt" her, was "f*cking hilariously bad," and "gives me recognition." You cannot simultaneously claim someone's behavior constitutes criminal harassment while acknowledging it didn't hurt you and actually benefited your public profile. These statements are irreconcilable.

This contradiction matters enormously. Maryland's stalking statute requires conduct intended to cause emotional distress or place someone in fear. If May herself admits she wasn't hurt or frightened—and in fact found the situation amusing and beneficial—her stalking accusation collapses under its own weight.

Some might argue May was simply emotional and posted impulsively. Fair enough—we've all said things in anger we later regret. But here's where May's judgment fails catastrophically: she was given multiple off-ramps.

On September 16, 2025, Trumbull sent May a detailed cease-and-desist letter explaining why her statements constituted defamation per se, citing relevant Maryland case law, and giving her a deadline to retract. This wasn't a lawyer's aggressive shakedown—it was an educational letter offering May a chance to correct her mistake before litigation.

May didn't respond.

On November 19, 2025, Trumbull sent an even more comprehensive demand letter spanning many pages, meticulously explaining the legal elements of defamation, analyzing potential defenses, and offering a mutual release if May simply posted a retraction and apology. He wasn't asking for money. He wanted the record corrected.

May didn't respond.

When Trumbull filed suit on December 8, 2025, and May was personally served on December 10th—meaning the documents were placed directly in her hands—she had 30 days to file an answer. She could have hired a lawyer. She could have filed a pro se response. She could have at least called Trumbull and said, "Can we talk about this?"

May did nothing.

This pattern of non-responsiveness isn't just legally foolish—it's morally telling. When you make serious accusations about someone, you own those accusations. You should be prepared to defend them. May's complete silence suggests she knew her accusations couldn't withstand scrutiny.

The peace order filing adds another layer of concern. On the same day Trumbull sent his cease-and-desist letter, May filed for a peace order—a legal mechanism designed to protect people from genuine threats. But then May failed to properly serve Trumbull four separate times and ultimately withdrew the petition. This sequence suggests the peace order wasn't filed out of genuine fear, but as a retaliatory tactic.

Maryland courts eventually granted Trumbull's motion to SEAL the dismissed peace order record, essentially agreeing the proceeding lacked merit. That's significant. Courts don't seal records lightly. The SEAL suggests the judge found the petition sufficiently baseless that maintaining a public record would unjustly harm Trumbull.

Now, some might ask: Wasn't Trumbull's YouTube video harsh? Perhaps. But criticism, even harsh criticism, of someone's publicly posted content isn't defamation. The complaint notes Trumbull used terms like "weird" and "cringy"—the exact words May uses to market herself. Her Spotify bio says she spreads "good weirdness." Her TikTok is labeled "my tweaking account." Her Instagram describes her as "an odd singer and actress thing here."

When you build a public persona around being provocative and "weird," you can't then claim it's defamatory when someone... calls you weird. That's not how this works.

More importantly, Trumbull's video expressed opinions about May's public content. Opinion is generally protected speech. What's NOT protected is falsely accusing someone of criminal conduct.

The default order entered January 20, 2026, was entirely predictable and entirely avoidable. May chose not to participate in the legal process. She ignored every opportunity to defend her statements or negotiate a resolution. A default order isn't a punishment—it's a procedural mechanism that allows litigation to move forward when one party refuses to engage.

What's next? Trumbull can now proceed to a hearing where he's seeking at least $30,000, plus an order requiring May to post a public retraction, a permanent injunction against further defamatory statements, and court costs. Given May's default, Trumbull's well-pleaded allegations are essentially admitted.

The broader lesson here extends beyond May and Trumbull. We live in an age where social media gives everyone a megaphone. That's democratizing and empowering. But it also means our careless words can cause real harm and trigger real legal consequences.

If you're going to accuse someone of a crime on Instagram, you better be absolutely certain you can prove it. If you make that accusation and realize you can't defend it, the mature response is to retract it and apologize—not to double down through silence and hope the problem disappears.

Ava Grace May had multiple chances to resolve this situation without litigation, without a default, and without the prospect of a five-figure damages award. She chose not to take any of them. That's not being a victim. That's being irresponsible. (AI usage for dramatization)