Crying Over Catfish (again)

A show about lies felt like my last bit of truth...and then it got canceled.

Catfish (n.): a person who deceives someone online with a fictional persona.

It was also a show about deception that, for me, felt like the last shred of authenticity left in the world.

I was sitting on the couch with my husband; we were both scrolling TikTok (as one does, don’t judge us). He turned his phone toward me – it was Nev Schulman and Max Joseph from Catfish.

I diverted my attention from my phone screen to his (god, this makes me sound like an iPad kid). I was excited to see Nev, since he hadn’t been on my radar lately, and of course I was excited to see Max because… he’s Max. And he’s next to Nev.

The two of them proceeded to deliver a message that was the exact opposite of what I expected to hear: Catfish was officially canceled.

When I registered what I had just heard, I felt something inside me deflate. Then I felt something in the pit of my stomach I didn’t quite understand, something twisting and then suddenly burning the back of my throat.

Before I knew it, I was actively crying. Full-blown ugly crying. My Lexapro ceased to do its job and I was inconsolable over a TV show. One I hadn’t even watched in a while.

Of all the things worth crying about in the world currently (there are so, so many), it was Nev & Max explaining that after 12 years Catfish was over that did me in.

I texted my best friend the news, hoping that despite it being approximately 3 a.m. her time, she’d be awake because I knew she’d understand on a level I wasn’t able to articulate. She wasn’t.

I wallowed for a while, racking my brain to try to comprehend why the fuck I was so upset over a TV show.

Sure, Catfish was my comfort show. As an ancient millennial and certified internet kid™ who grew up chronically online before being chronically online was a thing, and spent a lot of time in the realm of fandom spaces (iykyk; we all dated Zac Hanson at one point ok?), I was no stranger to the concept of a catfish before Nev even coined the term.

I distinctly remember the first time I was introduced to Catfish, the movie. I was sick as hell in bed in my too-small–too-expensive studio apartment in Portland. It was raining (surprise). I felt like shit. My then-boyfriend-now-husband suggested we watch a movie called Catfish.

I don’t remember much from the movie — but it changed my brain chemistry. I remember feeling different afterward, though I didn’t know why. I didn’t have words for it then; I certainly didn’t have them 12 years later while crying on my couch at midnight on a random Tuesday. I don’t even know if I do now; maybe it was a hyperfixation locking in place? From that moment on, Catfish brought me a comfort I can’t explain.

When I had a really shitty day, I’d put it on (you know how a comfort show works). When I’d find out there was a new season, I’d feel an immediate sense of hope, excitement and exhilaration… which is kinda weird, when you think about the fact that the show is based on deception? But I digress.

I went to bed shortly after, feeling defeated and disgruntled. Literally everything is shitty; the world is a trash fire. America. A new unprecedented event every week. The crushing weight of capitalism… you know, the list goes on.

And now Catfish is gone.

It felt symbolic to me, like the last remnants of the world I knew disappeared and were gone for good.

It made me feel old.

It made me feel hopeless.

It made me feel like a part of me, essential to my core, was gone. The internet is completely different now. Social media is completely different now. People are completely different now. The world is different now and I was grieving for it.

I cried over Catfish another three times over the span of a few days. One was that same night while lying in bed, still wondering why I was crying. Maybe it was just the culmination of everything terrible to cry over and this was the breaking point for me.

I tried to get over it, but it kept popping into my head (thank you, OCD rumination).

I ended up talking about it in therapy, where I realized the real reason: there was something special about Catfish – a show based on deception – that was real, truthful, authentic, and incredibly relatable in a way that is rare.

With the help of my therapist, I was able to start to articulate why it was so meaningful to me.

The concept of Catfish was born out of a space of extreme vulnerability and authenticity. Nev was actively being catfished and they made a movie about it.

I feel like it’s hard to find that kind of authenticity now; everything feels curated, like a facade, packaged, for sale (yes, I get that Catfish as a movie and a show were also packaged and sold, but just go with it).

As a person who strives to be my most authentic self (even when that authenticity often leads to exclusion, ostracism, challenges, setbacks), I cling to things that feel authentic.

Not only did Nev (and his brother, and Max, and whoever else) take his lived experience and share it, he put a name to something people were experiencing and it started an entire cultural phenomenon. Catfish helped people. It connected people. It helped people feel less alone, which brings me to my next tear-stained point:

The way Catfish operated was extremely aligned with my chronically online, neurodivergent brain.

There’s the mystery — who was it? Was it really who they thought? If not, who? Why did they do it?

Then the breadcrumbs: the clues, the puzzle to be solved. If we put the patterns together, we could figure it out.

And then there was the human question at the root of it all: why did someone feel compelled to pretend to be someone they weren’t? Why were they compelled to hide?

Nev and Max (mostly) handled those situations with grace. They created a safe space for conversation, giving catfishes — who were often just sad, lonely, or otherwise unfulfilled — the chance to reflect and share their story, while still holding them accountable.

Having both an annoyingly deep capacity for empathy and a strong sense of justice, Catfish checked all my boxes. Beyond the surface, it was a model for what I wish more of the world - and connections - were like.

And it just hits different when you’re a neurodivergent former Y2K internet kid.

I guess what I’m trying to say is that I admire and appreciate what Catfish created. It encapsulated some of the most flawed, personal, sad, hopeful, authentic, and inspiring parts of being human.

I try to operate from a place of vulnerability and authenticity in hopes of making a meaningful impact in the world. I long for a world that does the same (even if that feels increasingly unlikely). That’s why Catfish brought me hope.

It moved me in ways I didn’t even realize until it was gone.

A show about deception had somehow become my proof that something authentic could still exist in an increasingly manufactured world.

Its cancellation devastated me because it wasn’t just the end of a show — it was the end of an era, and with it, something personal, connected, and real.

Thanks Nev (and Max and Kami). I hope one day I can make something meaningful enough to devastate a 39-year-old internet sleuth the way Catfish devastated me, too.