True Crime TikTok Has a Reality Problem—and the Lindsay Clancy Trial Proved It

True crime has always had an audience.

We watched Dateline. We watched 20/20. We bought Ann Rule books at the grocery store. We listened to podcasts on road trips and watched documentaries that somehow convinced us that staying up until 2 a.m. learning about an unsolved murder was a perfectly reasonable way to relax.

But social media has changed the way we consume true crime.

Now, we don’t just watch a case.

We participate in it.

And the Lindsay Clancy trial may be one of the clearest examples yet of what happens when that participation goes too far.

The Trial That Took Over Social Media

Lindsay Clancy’s trial was almost designed for the internet age.

The Massachusetts mother was charged in the 2023 deaths of her three young children, Cora, Dawson and Callan. Clancy did not dispute that she killed them. Instead, her defense argued that she was not criminally responsible because she was experiencing postpartum psychosis. Prosecutors argued that her actions were deliberate.

After nearly six weeks of testimony and more than 38 hours of deliberations, the jury couldn’t reach a unanimous decision. A mistrial was declared on September 4. (AP News⁠)

But there was another trial happening at the same time.

The one on TikTok.

Every day brought new clips, theories, livestreams, body-language analysis and creators dissecting testimony minutes after it happened.

Some of that coverage was genuinely informative. Social media gave people access to conversations about postpartum mental health, the insanity defense and a complicated legal case they may otherwise never have followed.

But somewhere along the way, following the trial turned into participating in it.

And Patrick Clancy became one of the internet’s favorite suspects.

There was just one problem.

He wasn’t one.

TikTok Is Not a Courtroom

As the trial progressed, conspiracy theories about Lindsay’s former husband exploded online.

Creators questioned his behavior. They analyzed his testimony. They dissected his relationship. Some went considerably further, suggesting that Patrick himself had somehow been involved in the deaths of his children or had framed Lindsay.

There is no evidence supporting those accusations. Patrick has not been charged in connection with the deaths of his children. Yet the theories became so widespread that they essentially developed their own online fandom. WIRED reported that TikTok users were circulating theories that Patrick had killed the children and framed his mentally ill wife despite there being no evidence that he had done so. (WIRED⁠)

And this is where true crime creators need to remember something incredibly important:

Putting “allegedly” in your caption is not a magic spell.

The people involved in these cases aren’t characters.

They’re people.

And accusing a real person of murdering three children to thousands—or potentially millions—of followers can have real-world consequences.

Patrick Clancy’s attorney, Howard Cooper, has now publicly called the online accusations a “defamation campaign” and said his client intends to pursue appropriate measures to hold people accountable, including legally. Law enforcement has also been notified. Cooper says the online campaign has threatened Patrick’s reputation, livelihood and even his life. (WBUR⁠)

Whether any particular post ultimately meets the legal requirements for defamation is a question for lawyers and courts, not TikTok commenters. But that’s exactly the point.

Content creators should probably be thinking about that distinction before hitting post.

There is a massive difference between saying:

“Something about this testimony doesn’t sit right with me.”

and

“This man killed his children.”

One is commentary.

The other is an accusation of one of the most serious crimes imaginable.

When True Crime Becomes Entertainment

This isn’t exclusively a Lindsay Clancy problem.

It’s a true crime problem.

Social media rewards certainty.

“I don’t know, and there isn’t enough evidence to draw a conclusion” isn’t particularly exciting.

“I SOLVED THE CASE” gets clicks.

The algorithm rewards the shocking theory. The dramatic thumbnail. The six-part series. The creator who noticed the thing that supposedly everyone else missed.

And suddenly a horrific event involving real people becomes content.

The Clancy case became so deeply embedded in internet culture that creators weren’t simply discussing evidence anymore. People were choosing sides. Developing theories. Attacking witnesses. Rallying outside the courthouse.

One creator even faced backlash after promoting a prediction-market advertisement tied to the outcome of the Clancy trial and later apologized, calling the decision insensitive. (The Cut⁠)

Maybe that’s the moment we need to ask ourselves:

When did following true crime become rooting for an ending?

Because there shouldn’t be a team here.

Three children are dead.

A mother is living with the consequences of an unimaginable act.

A father lost all three of his children.

There is no winning version of this story.

We’ve Been Here Before

I was a kid when Andrea Yates became one of the most infamous women in America.

In 2001, Yates drowned her five children in the bathtub of their Texas home.

And I remember the way people talked about her.

She was a monster.

An evil mother.

How could a mother possibly do that to her own children?

What I don’t remember hearing nearly as much about was postpartum psychosis.

Yates had an extensive psychiatric history that included hospitalizations and suicide attempts. Her first murder conviction was ultimately overturned, and in 2006 a second jury found her not guilty by reason of insanity. (Los Angeles Times⁠)

None of that makes what happened to her children less horrific.

Understanding someone’s mental illness does not require us to minimize the victims.

Those two truths can exist at the same time.

Five children died in the Yates case.

Three children died in the Clancy case.

They deserve to be remembered.

But if we stop the conversation at How could a mother do this?, we miss the question that might actually save another family:

How do we recognize when a mother is becoming dangerously ill before a tragedy happens?

Postpartum Depression and Postpartum Psychosis Are Not the Same Thing

This distinction matters.

Postpartum depression is far more common and can include persistent sadness, anxiety, hopelessness, difficulty bonding and other symptoms that interfere with everyday life.

Postpartum psychosis is much rarer—and much more severe.

Experts estimate postpartum psychosis occurs in roughly one to two out of every 1,000 births. It can involve delusions, hallucinations, mania, paranoia and profound confusion, and it requires urgent medical attention. (The Guardian⁠)

And importantly, most women experiencing postpartum depression or other postpartum mental health conditions will never harm their children.

Cases like Yates and Clancy represent devastating extremes.

But that’s also why understanding the warning signs matters.

A mother experiencing psychosis isn’t simply “overwhelmed.”

She isn’t failing at motherhood.

She may be experiencing a medical emergency.

And medical emergencies require treatment.

Maybe This Is the Conversation Worth Going Viral

Twenty-five years separate Andrea Yates and Lindsay Clancy.

The way we’re talking about them feels different.

Not perfect.

Clearly.

We’ve replaced tabloid headlines with TikTok conspiracy theories, and I’m not convinced that’s progress.

But mixed into the endless commentary surrounding the Clancy trial has been something worthwhile: thousands of people are talking about postpartum depression and postpartum psychosis.

People are learning the difference.

Women are sharing their own experiences.

We’re asking questions about how mothers access psychiatric care after giving birth and what happens when warning signs are missed.

The Clancy trial itself has renewed national attention on gaps in postpartum psychosis research and maternal mental-health care. (The Guardian⁠)

Maybe that’s the one piece of light we can pull from an impossibly dark story.

Because we cannot change what happened to Cora, Dawson and Callan Clancy.

We cannot change what happened to Noah, John, Paul, Luke and Mary Yates.

But we can learn from them.

True crime creators have enormous platforms now. With those platforms comes an opportunity—and, I’d argue, a responsibility.

We can use them to invent villains.

We can use them to chase engagement.

We can turn grieving families into characters and tragedy into a content series.

Or we can use those platforms to talk about the things that might prevent the next case from ever becoming a true crime story in the first place.

And maybe that is the part worth making viral.

About the Author

Ashley is a military wife and mother, who can often be found listening to an audiobook while driving the mom taxi, desperate to cling to sanity through the joy of escapism. Her love of reading inspired her return to school, and she is currently finishing her bachelor’s degree in creative writing at Southern New Hampshire University. Being a mother does not mean you have to give up your dreams, and her story is still being written.