I have come to the conclusion that online dating is one of the only places where adults routinely advertise themselves like slightly damaged used cars.
Low mileage.
Excellent condition.
Always kept indoors.
One careful owner.
Then you meet them in person and discover the headlights don't work, the bumper is being held together with optimism, and somewhere between the profile picture and the restaurant they apparently aged nine years.
Welcome to kittenfishing.
If catfishing is pretending to be an entirely different person, kittenfishing is more like pretending to be the deluxe edition of yourself. You're technically still you. You simply removed a few inconvenient details, upgraded several specifications, selected photographs from an administration that has already left office, and described your lifestyle as though Netflix hasn't asked you four times today whether you're still watching.
The term generally refers to people making themselves look more attractive or desirable online through things like outdated photographs, aggressive photo editing, exaggerated accomplishments, embellished job descriptions, altered ages, inflated heights, or carefully crafted personality claims that begin disintegrating approximately eleven minutes into the first date.
And before everyone begins pointing fingers at other people's dating profiles, I should mention something uncomfortable.
Almost everybody understands the temptation.
Dating apps have essentially turned romance into advertising.
You are the product.
Your photographs are the packaging.
Your bio is the commercial.
Your matches are prospective customers scrolling through competitors while eating cereal.
Suddenly everyone becomes their own marketing department.
Of course we're tempted to polish things.
The question is when polishing becomes fiction.
Because there's a significant difference between choosing a flattering photograph and posting a photograph from 2017 when your knees still believed in you.
There is a difference between saying you enjoy traveling and implying that you're constantly wandering through Tuscany when you went to Cancun once for your cousin's wedding.
There is a difference between putting your best foot forward and digitally constructing a foot that has never belonged to you.
That is where kittenfishing lives.
And I find it fascinating because kittenfishing isn't really about dating profiles.
It's about insecurity.
It's about competition.
It's about our strange belief that people will reject reality but somehow fall permanently in love with the advertisement.
Kittenfishing Is Basically False Advertising With Drinks Afterwards
Imagine ordering a hamburger because the photograph shows this massive, beautiful creation stacked with fresh vegetables, melted cheese, and a bun apparently handcrafted by angels.
Then the employee hands you something that looks like it lost a custody battle.
Technically, it's the hamburger.
The ingredients are present.
Nobody replaced the beef with cardboard.
But we can all acknowledge that certain promises were made.
Dating apps operate similarly.
Someone uploads six photographs.
One is nine years old.
Two are filtered.
One was taken from an angle previously used only by NASA.
One contains sunglasses covering approximately 73 percent of the face.
And the final photograph inexplicably contains seven people.
Now you're playing romantic Where's Waldo.
Eventually you meet the person and experience that strange moment where your brain recognizes enough facial landmarks to understand that this is technically the same human being.
That is kittenfishing.
It isn't always malicious.
In fact, that's part of what makes it interesting.
Psychology Today describes kittenfishing as embellishing or misrepresenting yourself online to become more desirable rather than creating an entirely false identity. It may involve misleading photographs or exaggerating things such as work, interests, accomplishments, personality, or appearance.
The kittenfish usually exists.
The problem is that their marketing department needs federal oversight.
Why Do People Kittenfish?
The obvious answer is that they want more matches.
But I think there's more happening underneath.
Dating apps create an environment where you're evaluated incredibly quickly.
You might spend forty years becoming a complicated human being with emotional depth, funny stories, professional experience, terrible mistakes, unusual interests, meaningful friendships, and countless little qualities that make you who you are.
Then somebody looks at your profile for four seconds.
Swipe left.
Your entire existence just got eliminated because the lighting in photograph number three was questionable.
That's psychologically bizarre.
So people adapt.
They optimize.
They start wondering which version of themselves receives the best response.
And once you start thinking that way, exaggeration doesn't seem particularly dramatic.
Maybe I shave two years off my age.
Maybe I choose older photographs.
Maybe I say I'm six feet tall instead of 5-foot-10.
Maybe my job title gets a promotion.
Maybe hiking becomes one of my hobbies even though the closest I've come to hiking recently was walking through Costco without accepting a sample.
Each adjustment seems small.
Put them together and suddenly someone is going on a date with your fictional executive biography.
Reason Number One: Insecurity
This is probably the largest factor.
People don't kittenfish because they're overwhelmingly confident.
They do it because some part of them believes reality isn't competitive enough.
Maybe they don't like their current appearance.
Maybe they're worried about getting older.
Maybe they're embarrassed about their job.
Maybe they're insecure about income.
Maybe they've convinced themselves that everyone else on dating apps is younger, richer, fitter, more successful, better traveled, emotionally enlightened, and somehow casually standing on a mountain every Saturday morning.
So they modify themselves.
The tragedy is that kittenfishing often reinforces the insecurity that created it.
Imagine believing:
“The real me isn't attractive enough.”
So you create an improved profile.
Someone likes the improved version.
What lesson does your brain learn?
Not that you're desirable.
It learns that the disguise worked.
Now you've created your own evidence against yourself.
Even when someone shows interest, you can't fully enjoy it because part of you thinks they're interested in the edited version.
That's exhausting.
You're essentially competing against yourself.
And your imaginary competitor has excellent lighting.
Reason Number Two: Dating Apps Turn Romance Into Competition
Dating apps can make normal people behave like advertising agencies.
You aren't simply meeting someone anymore.
You're competing for attention.
Every profile is surrounded by other profiles.
The next person is one swipe away.
That changes behavior.
Suddenly people start optimizing themselves the way companies optimize cereal boxes.
Bolder colors.
Better photographs.
More impressive claims.
Lifestyle upgrades.
Everybody loves travel.
Everybody loves adventure.
Everybody enjoys meaningful conversations.
Apparently nobody enjoys sitting on the couch eating leftover pizza while watching documentaries about disasters.
Yet statistically I know my people are out there.
Modern dating profiles often read like everyone has become a motivational speaker.
“Always seeking my next adventure.”
Really?
Because I saw you at Target wearing sweatpants and arguing with the self-checkout machine.
Let's calm down, Magellan.
The competitive environment encourages exaggeration because people become afraid authenticity won't survive the marketplace.
Reason Number Three: Everyone Thinks They're Just “Putting Their Best Foot Forward”
This is the most common justification.
Nobody says:
“I am deliberately misleading potential romantic partners.”
That sounds terrible.
Instead, people say:
“I'm just showing my best side.”
And technically, that's reasonable.
Of course you should choose good photographs.
You don't need to upload a picture taken at 6:14 in the morning while battling the flu.
Dating profiles aren't mugshots.
But there is a line.
If your photograph looks like you on a good day, that's presentation.
If your photograph looks like you during the Obama administration, that's historical documentation.
The same applies to everything else.
Saying you're ambitious because you're actively building something is fair.
Saying you're an entrepreneur because you once created an Etsy account is more questionable.
Saying you're athletic because you exercise regularly makes sense.
Saying fitness is your lifestyle because you bought resistance bands during the pandemic feels ambitious.
There's presenting yourself well.
Then there's submitting creative nonfiction.
Reason Number Four: People Think They'll Win You Over in Person
This strategy fascinates me.
Some people knowingly exaggerate because they believe that once you meet them, their personality will overcome the discrepancy.
Basically:
“Yes, my photographs are misleading, but once you experience my charm you'll forgive the fraudulent onboarding process.”
Occasionally this probably works.
Humans are complicated.
Chemistry can override expectations.
But there's an obvious problem.
Your first interaction now contains disappointment.
Before you've ordered appetizers, the other person is already recalibrating.
They expected one thing.
You delivered something noticeably different.
Now you aren't simply trying to make a connection.
You're recovering trust.
Psychology Today makes a similar point: misleading presentation defeats one of dating's central purposes, which is finding someone who is genuinely compatible with the real you. A profile that doesn't accurately reflect you can attract people who aren't actually suited to you.
That's the irony.
Kittenfishing may increase matches while decreasing compatibility.
Congratulations.
You optimized the wrong metric.
Reason Number Five: People Are Terrified of Aging
Let's discuss photographs.
Specifically, the archaeological dating profile.
If your main profile picture was taken before TikTok existed, I have concerns.
I understand why people do this.
Aging is complicated.
Dating makes it more complicated because you're being visually evaluated.
People remember how they looked five, ten, or fifteen years ago, and sometimes their internal identity hasn't updated as quickly as the calendar.
So they use older photographs because those photographs still feel like them.
Emotionally, I understand.
Logistically, we have a problem.
The person meeting you tonight is not dating your 2018 cheekbones.
They're dating you.
Today.
This isn't cruel.
It's reality.
A good recent photograph may generate fewer matches than a spectacular photograph from eight years ago.
But those matches actually know who they're meeting.
That's valuable.
I would rather receive ten matches based on reality than fifty matches based on an expired version of myself.
At least theoretically.
Ask me again after two lonely Saturdays.
Height Has Somehow Become International Diplomacy
No discussion of kittenfishing would be complete without height.
Dating apps have turned human height into something resembling disputed territory.
Nobody knows where the borders actually are.
A man says he's six feet tall.
Then you meet him and discover he is apparently using a proprietary measurement system.
Maybe shoes were included.
Maybe posture.
Maybe optimism.
Maybe he measured while standing on unresolved childhood trauma.
I don't know.
But numbers have become flexible.
And I understand the motivation.
Certain dating filters create incentives to stretch the truth.
But here's the obvious issue.
Height is one of the easiest things to verify.
You eventually have to stand up.
There is no long-term strategy here.
You cannot spend a relationship on tiptoes.
People Kittenfish Their Personalities Too
Physical appearance gets most of the attention, but personality kittenfishing might be even more interesting.
People write:
“No drama.”
That sentence has frightened me ever since I realized the people who announce it most aggressively sometimes appear to be surrounded by enough drama to supply six seasons of television.
Other classics include:
“Easygoing.”
“Emotionally mature.”
“Great communicator.”
“Love deep conversations.”
“Positive vibes only.”
Some of these are perfectly accurate.
Others are aspiration disguised as biography.
We're all guilty of this in milder ways.
Human beings often describe themselves according to how they want to be rather than how they consistently behave.
I might believe I'm patient.
Then someone drives 51 mph in the passing lane.
Suddenly new data becomes available.
Dating profiles amplify this tendency.
People don't describe who they are on an average Wednesday.
They describe their preferred character.
The Problem Isn't Perfection. It's Expectation.
Here's where I think people misunderstand kittenfishing.
The problem isn't that someone isn't perfect.
Nobody sensible expects perfection.
The problem is the gap between expectation and reality.
If your profile shows exactly who you are, people arrive calibrated correctly.
Maybe they're attracted to you.
Maybe they aren't.
That's dating.
But when the profile creates unrealistic expectations, you're setting yourself up for disappointment before the conversation begins.
Imagine someone walks into a restaurant searching for the person from your pictures.
Their eyes move around the room.
They look directly at you.
Then continue searching.
That's an emotional Yelp review developing in real time.
No thanks.
How I Would Avoid Getting Kittenfished
There is no foolproof method.
Anyone determined enough can misrepresent themselves.
But there are ways to reduce the odds.
The first is remarkably simple.
Look for recent photographs
I don't need someone's entire photographic history.
But I do want evidence that these images belong to the current geological period.
Different settings help.
Different lighting helps.
A mixture of close-up and full-body photographs helps.
What concerns me is six photographs that clearly came from one afternoon.
Especially if that afternoon occurred when Vine was popular.
Also pay attention to consistency.
Does the person look reasonably similar across photographs?
Or does every photograph appear to feature a different stage of human development?
People change.
Hair changes.
Weight changes.
Styles change.
That's normal.
I'm looking for broad consistency, not forensic perfection.
Move Beyond Text Eventually
Texting can create an entire imaginary person.
That's both wonderful and dangerous.
You start filling gaps with assumptions.
Their messages seem witty.
Their photographs look attractive.
Their profile sounds compatible.
Your brain begins directing a movie.
Before you've met, you're already emotionally casting them in scenes they haven't auditioned for.
This is why I prefer not to spend weeks building an elaborate texting relationship with someone I've never encountered in real life.
A short video call can clarify a lot.
Not because I'm running identity verification for the Department of Homeland Security.
Because communication feels different live.
You hear cadence.
You see expressions.
You experience timing.
The fantasy shrinks and the person becomes real.
That's good.
Reality should arrive early.
Ask Normal Questions
You don't need to interrogate somebody.
Please don't turn Bumble into customs inspection.
But natural questions reveal whether someone's profile matches their actual life.
If they say they love hiking, ask about their favorite trail.
If they travel constantly, ask where they went recently.
If they're supposedly obsessed with cooking, ask what they make.
If they're an “entrepreneur,” ask about their business.
Not aggressively.
Just conversationally.
Genuine interests usually produce detail.
Fabricated interests often produce fog.
“I love hiking.”
“Oh, nice. Where do you usually hike?”
“You know. Outdoors.”
Interesting.
Tell me more, Bear Grylls.
Beware the Extremely Curated Profile
Perfect profiles make me curious.
Every photograph professionally lit.
Every vacation exotic.
Every hobby photogenic.
Every sentence polished.
Every accomplishment impressive.
Maybe the person genuinely lives an extraordinary life.
Some people do.
But life normally contains mess.
That's what makes people interesting.
When a profile feels more like a luxury hotel brochure than a human being, I become cautious.
Psychology Today's advice on avoiding kittenfishing includes treating profile claims somewhat like advertising and maintaining skepticism toward presentations that appear excessively polished or perfect.
I think that's sensible.
Trust slowly.
Observe.
Let reality catch up with the profile.
Don't Become Obsessed With Superficial Criteria
This one requires uncomfortable self-awareness.
If your filters demand perfection, you create incentives for people to fake perfection.
Suppose someone believes they absolutely require:
Six feet tall.
Certain income.
Specific profession.
Exact age range.
Perfect body.
Luxury lifestyle.
Constant travel.
Then they shouldn't be shocked when some people begin adjusting specifications.
That doesn't excuse dishonesty.
But it explains the market.
Dating apps can encourage people to screen each other using superficial attributes that may not reliably predict compatibility, while the sheer abundance of choices can make dating feel more transactional and exhausting.
If I obsess over easily exaggerated qualities, I shouldn't be surprised when exaggerators appear.
The better question is:
What actually predicts whether I enjoy being around this person?
Kindness matters.
Humor matters.
Reliability matters.
Curiosity matters.
Compatibility matters.
Emotional stability matters.
Whether someone photographed well beside a waterfall in Iceland probably matters less than Instagram would have me believe.
Trust Discrepancies, Not Paranoia
I don't believe dating requires becoming suspicious of everyone.
That's miserable.
Most people aren't running sophisticated deception campaigns.
But discrepancies deserve attention.
If someone's stories constantly change, notice.
If the job description becomes increasingly vague, notice.
If every photograph seems old, notice.
If they avoid video calls for months, notice.
If basic biographical information refuses to remain consistent, notice.
One discrepancy may mean nothing.
Five discrepancies begin forming a pattern.
The goal isn't paranoia.
It's awareness.
And If You Discover You've Been Kittenfished?
This depends on severity.
Someone using a flattering photograph?
That's life.
Someone using pictures two years old because they gained ten pounds?
Maybe give the person some grace.
Someone lying about age, relationship status, career, children, major lifestyle details, or repeatedly presenting false information?
That's different.
The issue becomes trust.
Everyone has a different tolerance level.
What matters is whether you feel manipulated.
I might forgive insecurity.
I have much less patience for calculated deception.
Because if someone is comfortable altering easily verifiable information before the first date, I'm naturally going to wonder how they handle harder truths later.
The Irony of Kittenfishing
Here's what makes the entire phenomenon almost sad.
People kittenfish because they want to be chosen.
But the more they distort themselves, the less meaningful being chosen becomes.
If someone chooses a fake version of me, did they really choose me?
That's the contradiction.
I could make myself taller.
Younger.
Richer.
More adventurous.
More successful.
More sophisticated.
I could photograph myself under perfect lighting, edit everything I dislike, and create a biography impressive enough to make strangers feel underachieving.
Maybe I'd get more matches.
But eventually I have to walk through the door.
Eventually the marketing campaign ends.
Eventually I'm just me.
And I'd rather reach that point before wasting everybody's time.
Your Dating Profile Should Be a Trailer, Not Science Fiction
This is probably the simplest way I can explain my philosophy.
A dating profile should be a trailer.
Show the good stuff.
Create interest.
Choose flattering moments.
Highlight your personality.
Nobody expects raw surveillance footage.
But the movie should resemble the trailer.
If I watch a trailer for a comedy, buy a ticket, sit down, and discover I've been tricked into watching a three-hour documentary about municipal sewer systems, I'm going to feel misled.
The movie might even be excellent.
That isn't the point.
Expectation matters.
Your dating profile doesn't need to contain every flaw, insecurity, bad photograph, financial mistake, questionable haircut, or regrettable decision you've made since adolescence.
It simply needs to represent the same person who will eventually show up.
That seems like a reasonable standard.
Maybe Authenticity Is the Ultimate Dating Filter
Everyone wants more matches.
I understand.
Rejection doesn't feel good.
Silence doesn't feel good.
Watching people swipe past you doesn't feel good.
But more matches aren't necessarily better.
What I actually want are compatible matches.
That's a different objective.
If honesty causes someone to reject me earlier, maybe that's useful.
They were going to reject reality eventually anyway.
Better now than after three dinners, seventeen text conversations, one awkward brunch, and somebody buying concert tickets six months in advance.
Authenticity filters people.
That's one of its benefits.
The people who dislike reality voluntarily remove themselves.
Efficiency.
I Think We Need to Stop Treating Dating Like Marketing
Modern dating encourages branding.
We're told to build profiles.
Choose photographs.
Write prompts.
Optimize responses.
Improve conversion.
Increase matches.
At some point we've accidentally turned falling in love into digital advertising.
No wonder people kittenfish.
We're teaching everyone to become products.
But relationships aren't built between advertisements.
They're built between people.
Messy people.
Insecure people.
Funny people.
Complicated people.
People who look terrible under fluorescent lighting.
People who occasionally say dumb things.
People who have boring weekends.
People who don't climb mountains.
People whose jobs don't sound impressive at cocktail parties.
People who sometimes eat cereal for dinner.
Those are the people who actually exist.
And reality is ultimately what every relationship has to survive.
My Final Rule: Don't Advertise a Person You Can't Maintain
That's the rule I would give anyone building a dating profile.
Don't advertise a version of yourself you cannot comfortably maintain offline.
If you claim you're adventurous, eventually someone will suggest an adventure.
If you claim you're wealthy, eventually reality gets expensive.
If you claim you're emotionally mature, eventually conflict will test the theory.
If you claim you're six feet tall, eventually chairs will stop helping.
If your pictures are ten years old, eventually daylight arrives.
Reality always collects its debt.
So use good pictures.
Absolutely.
Dress well.
Smile.
Write an interesting biography.
Mention your accomplishments.
Show your personality.
Market yourself a little.
We're human.
We all do it.
But leave enough truth in the advertisement that the customer recognizes the product.
Because the best possible outcome on a dating app isn't attracting everybody.
It's attracting somebody who meets you in person and thinks:
“Yep. That's the person I was hoping would walk through the door.”
No recalibration.
No archaeological investigation.
No emergency meeting with the marketing department.
Just two people discovering whether they actually like each other.
Which sounds remarkably simple.
Then again, we've apparently reached a point where honesty on dating apps qualifies as innovation.
So maybe I shouldn't get ahead of myself.