Catfishing used to mean pretending to be someone else online, usually to pursue a romantic relationship with someone who might eventually spend several episodes of an MTV show waiting in a suspiciously empty parking lot. But the newest breed of catfish does not need to steal another person’s face.
Welcome to what I call “credential catfishing,” the increasingly visible practice of fabricating the education, career, wealth, and status that signal authority online. Instead of borrowing someone else’s face, the credential catfish turns their own life into fiction, building the story one post at a time. And Angel Victoria Murdock may be its most viral recent example.
Credit: Screenshot from Reddit: r/InfluencerLounge
The influencer and former Temptation Island participant spent nearly two years sharing what she portrayed as her journey through Duke University’s Physician Assistant Program on TikTok, Instagram, and YouTube. Followers saw her in scrubs, studying medical notes, displaying what appeared to be Duke Health identification, and filming “get ready with me” videos for supposed rotations in psychiatry, obstetrics, and gynecology. She also offered advice to aspiring physician assistants and spoke about the long hours and sacrifices of PA training.
Outside of her medical content, Murdock promoted fashion and beauty products, appeared in a Missy Empire clothing haul, and participated in TikTok Shop’s affiliate program, which allows creators to earn commissions from sales.
This Tweet is currently unavailable. It might be loading or has been removed.
After “graduating,” she posed in a cap and gown outside Duke Chapel, reportedly captioning her Instagram: “Today, I get to look back and realize that every late night, every sacrifice, every setback and every prayer was leading me right here.”
There was just one problem: She had never attended the program. At all.
Murdock’s story began to unravel on Aug. 20, when a recent Duke PA graduate wrote in the subreddit r/InfluencerLounge that a classmate had discovered Murdock’s videos the previous year and congratulated her on attending the same program. Within five minutes, the post said, Murdock blocked the classmate.
This Tweet is currently unavailable. It might be loading or has been removed.
Members of Duke’s 2026 PA class then began comparing notes. None recalled seeing Murdock in class, on campus, or at program events. Plus, in the graduation image, her academic hood was the wrong color, she was missing from the official class photo, and her name was never called during the program’s graduation ceremony, which remains available on YouTube.
Other elements of Murdock’s public identity also came under scrutiny. She described herself online as a licensed real-estate agent in North Carolina and Georgia, posting listings, house tours, and photos of purported clients. Yet neither state’s licensing database listed her, and her named employer said she had never worked there. Murdock also claimed to have earned a double major in biology and psychology from the University of North Carolina at Charlotte, but — you guessed it — the university told the New York Post that she attended but did not graduate. (Murdock’s main social-media accounts have since been deleted or made private.)
Murdock’s story may be ridiculously elaborate, but it points to a much bigger problem online: You can easily build an audience, earn people’s trust, and make money long before anyone stops to ask whether your background is legitimate in the first place.
Lying on social media can pay
Social media makes it remarkably easy for anyone to lie about who they are. Post the same claim often enough, with enough photos and convincing details, and it can begin to look like a documented life. And Murdock is hardly the first person to build an audience around an identity that was not real.
In Australia, Dalya Karezi attracted more than 200,000 TikTok followers as “dr.dalya.s,” wearing scrubs and a stethoscope while discussing reproductive and sexual health in videos that received as many as 15 million views. But Karezi was not a doctor. In 2023, she pleaded guilty to two charges of falsely representing herself as qualified to practice medicine.
Outside of medicine, Jebara Igbara, better known as “Jay Mazini,” presented himself to roughly 1 million followers as a wealthy cryptocurrency investor, posting videos of himself handing out cash to strangers and workers. Federal prosecutors later said those displays were part of a manufactured persona used to attract investors. Igbara pleaded guilty to fraud charges and was sentenced in 2024 to seven years in prison after using his Instagram presence as “proof of success” to persuade victims to send him money. There’s a Hulu documentary all about it.
This Tweet is currently unavailable. It might be loading or has been removed.
Even this week, federal agents arrested the “Wide Deceiver,” Daejon Labrayae Love, who prosecutors say used social media to pose as a San Francisco 49ers wide receiver and wealthy real-estate investor. Love allegedly photographed himself in 49ers gear, filmed workouts in a team helmet, and staged a contract-signing video while dripping in jewelry. He even appeared in a Google search listing him as a player, despite the NFL and the 49ers confirming they had never employed him.
Division II football player Uras Agee IV also allegedly posed as a Dallas Cowboys player for months and autographed footballs for Tampa’s “Toys for Tots.”
This Tweet is currently unavailable. It might be loading or has been removed.
This Tweet is currently unavailable. It might be loading or has been removed.
According to the Justice Department, Love used the persona to find, well, love — and persuade women to place money in nonexistent investments. Prosecutors say Love and his alleged accomplice, Taylor Jamie Chan, received approximately $1.3 million from 26 identified victims. Both men have been charged with conspiracy to commit wire fraud.
This Tweet is currently unavailable. It might be loading or has been removed.
There’s actually a reason seeing the same story online over and over can make it feel so real. Psychologists call it the “illusory truth effect,” a phenomenon in which repeated exposure to a claim increases its perceived accuracy, even when it conflicts with what we already know. Researchers believe that familiarity makes information easier for our brains to process, which can make it feel more trustworthy.
This doesn’t mean you need to run a background check on everyone you follow. But if someone is giving medical advice, pitching investments, or using a supposed profession to earn your trust — and especially your money — it’s worth checking. A huge following, a blue check, and years of convincing posts can make someone look legitimate. They don’t prove that the person is.
The good news is that many of these claims are easier to check than you might think. Medical and real-estate licenses are usually listed in state databases. Sports teams publish rosters, and many employers have staff directories. The key is to go straight to the organization that supposedly issued the license, awarded the degree, or hired the person, rather than to another social media post or an AI-generated Google result that may simply repeat the same claim.
Most people do not have the time (or the desire) to investigate everyone they follow. They should not have to. But when a creator’s advice could affect your health, money, or future, it’s worth taking a moment to find out who is actually behind the content — and whether they’re worth trusting.
