Carrie Jade Williams vs. Samantha Cookes: Timeline, Aliases, and How a Viral ‘Disability Advocate’ Was Exposed
Every once in a while, the internet serves up a story so wild that it feels like a Netflix thriller dressed up as a TikTok account. Somewhere between the pastel captions, “send love” hashtags, and heart-wrenching monologues about a terminal illness, a woman calling herself Carrie Jade Williams built a loyal community around disability advocacy, resilience, and alleged Huntington’s disease. Behind the ring light and the emotional storytelling, though, there was another name quietly waiting to surface: Samantha Jade Cookes, a convicted serial fraudster with a long, complicated history of deception across the UK and Ireland.
This isn’t just the story of a scammer who fooled a few gullible people online. It is a timeline of carefully crafted identities, an evolving “main character” performance honed over years, and a case study in how social media turns emotionally compelling narratives into trust, money, and status almost overnight. It also shows how that same internet can flip, almost as quickly, into a forensic crime scene where strangers pick apart plot holes, digital footprints, and public records until the mask finally slips.
In this long-form Pinknarcology deep dive, the goal is not to glamorize the chaos but to understand it: how a woman with a documented trail of fraud allegations and convictions reinvented herself as a vulnerable disabled writer, why people wanted to believe her so badly, and what the eventual unmasking reveals about narcissistic manipulation in the age of TikTok. Think of this as a pop-psych, armchair-forensic walkthrough of the Carrie-versus-Samantha split—part timeline, part psychological profile, and part cautionary tale for anyone scrolling past “inspirational” content on a bad day.
Meet “Carrie Jade Williams”: TikTok’s Favorite Terminally Ill Writer
Before the name Samantha Cookes re-entered the conversation, the world mostly knew the persona: Carrie Jade Williams, the soft-spoken woman in a wheelchair, talking about how Huntington’s disease was slowly stealing her future. On social platforms and in interviews, she leaned into a very modern archetype—part disabled activist, part cozy writer, part tragic heroine who might not live long enough to see her book on the shelves. Her story included juggling assistive technology, dictating to devices, and wrestling with the idea of making the most of “limited time.” It was the sort of narrative that lands cleanly in a social feed: sad enough to feel profound, hopeful enough to be shareable.
The hooks were emotionally calibrated: fears about losing independence, gratitude for online support, and a promise to use whatever time remained to advocate for other disabled people. For many viewers, this wasn’t just content; it was a parasocial relationship. People sent messages, bought products, shared posts, and recommended her story to friends who were sick, burnt out, or simply craving proof that humans can be kind to each other. In a culture where algorithms reward tearful honesty and trauma confessionals, “Carrie Jade” fit the template almost too perfectly.
From a pop-psych perspective, the rise of Carrie speaks to two powerful forces: our collective hunger for “authentic” vulnerability and the way online audiences often blur the line between storytelling and fact. The more she shared, the more people filled in the blanks with their own empathy, projecting goodness onto someone they had never met. It felt like community care. It also quietly set the stage for a massive breach of trust once the narrative began to crack.
From Samantha to Carrie: How a Serial Scammer Rebranded Herself
Away from the ring light, court records and reporting paint a very different picture of the woman behind the persona. Born in Gloucestershire in the late 1980s, Samantha Jade Cookes had brushes with the legal system years before the world ever heard of “Carrie Jade.” Investigations and court cases in the UK and Ireland have linked her to a pattern of deception that includes posing as a nanny, a surrogate, a children’s therapist, and, eventually, a terminally ill author. Public records document convictions and suspended sentences for various fraud-related offenses long before her disability-advocate era became a talking point online.
Over time, Samantha reportedly operated under a string of different names and roles, shifting context whenever suspicion caught up: a helpful child specialist here, a trusted caregiver there, an aspiring writer embedded in a creative community somewhere else. Each identity came with just enough detail to feel believable—references, backstories, and emotionally charged explanations for any inconsistencies. Yet the through-line, when you zoom out, is a set of recurring themes: access to vulnerable people, requests for money or resources, and a tendency to exit abruptly when questions got too close.
The leap from these earlier roles to the polished, terminally ill TikTok advocate wasn’t as random as it might look. If you see identity-building as a series of “A/B tests,” it makes psychological sense that a practiced manipulator would eventually land on the role that generates the highest emotional return on investment. A tragic illness, plus a creative vocation, plus advocacy language lifted from real disability spaces is a potent combination. It offers moral cover, steady sympathy, and an endless stream of reasons why any gaps in the story should be forgiven.
In pop-psych terms, this is where impression management becomes central. When someone has a history of fraud, but no public narrative about that history, there is a vacuum that can be filled with whatever version of themselves they are skilled enough to sell. For Samantha, “Carrie Jade” was not just a new username; it was a reputational reboot, optimized for the attention economy and wrapped in the aesthetics of fragility and courage.
The Perfect Victim Costume: Wheelchairs, Huntington’s, and Heartstrings
One of the most unsettling parts of this story is the way disability itself became a costume piece in a long-running performance. In videos and posts, Carrie presented Huntington’s disease as the central defining feature of her life—an incurable, degenerative condition that explained her mobility aids, her fatigue, and her sense of racing against the clock. Viewers saw a woman in a wheelchair, heard references to neurological decline, and naturally connected those visual cues with the narrative being offered. Very few people are trained to ask, “What if this is all a construct?” when faced with such intense vulnerability.
The alleged fraud went beyond aesthetics and into systems. According to reporting and court coverage, Samantha obtained disability-related welfare payments after convincing a respected doctor that she had Huntington’s disease and using that documentation to secure long-term financial support. Later, when the case reached court, prosecutors described a pattern of deliberate deception, with dozens of payments wrongfully obtained over several years. The internet saw a disabled influencer fighting for dignity. The state, eventually, saw a calculated exploitation of a diagnosis that countless real patients struggle with every day.
Psychologically, this is classic “weaponized vulnerability.” Instead of vulnerability being a point of connection and mutual care, it becomes a shield and a tool. Any skepticism can be reframed as ableism or cruelty: “How dare you question a disabled woman about her own illness?” That dynamic creates a powerful chilling effect. People who might otherwise have asked reasonable questions stay silent, afraid of being the bad guy. In that silence, a manipulator gains even more room to maneuver.
There is also a darker layer: the use of a specific, devastating illness like Huntington’s as part of the script. For individuals and families who genuinely live with that diagnosis, seeing their reality reduced to a fraudster’s prop is not just offensive; it can be retraumatizing. The emotional labor that real disabled advocates expend to educate the public gets quietly undermined when a high-profile example turns out to be built on lies. Trust erodes. Skepticism about future advocates increases. The damage ripples outward in ways that cannot be neatly quantified.
Going Viral: How the Internet Fell in Love with a Lie
At first, nothing about Carrie’s online rise looked unusual. A moving story, a sympathetic main character, and a relatable theme—“What would you do if you knew your time was running out?”—are exactly the kind of ingredients that help a creator beat the algorithm. Video essays about writing from bed, posts about accessibility, and emotional reflections on mortality traveled easily across TikTok, Instagram, and other platforms. People stitched her content, duetted her, and used her quotes in their own posts about resilience and gratitude.
Traditional media eventually followed. Features, interviews, and cultural commentary pieces framed Carrie as an example of courage in the digital age: a woman facing down a fatal illness while trying to create art, build community, and advocate for others. Literary recognition arrived too, including a prestigious writing prize that seemed to validate not only her talent but also her public persona. For many observers, if a respected institution had vetted and rewarded her, that was proof enough she must be genuine.
Underneath the pop-psych microscope, what happened here can be described as a feedback loop of borrowed credibility. Social proof from followers made her seem authentic to journalists; coverage from journalists made her seem vetted to followers; a literary award made her seem legitimate to everyone. Each layer of validation became an emotional anchor: “So many smart people believe her—surely this can’t all be fake.” This is the same mechanism that gives cult leaders and con artists their staying power. The more people they convince, the harder it is for anyone inside the bubble to consider they might be wrong.
There is also the very human desire to root for someone. In a world saturated with bleak headlines, audiences cling to stories where suffering is transformed into purpose. Carrie’s narrative gave people permission to feel hopeful: here was someone allegedly staring down a degenerative illness and still finding reasons to laugh, to write, to create. When a story meets an emotional need that powerfully, the brain often shifts from fact-checking into protection mode. Doubt starts to feel like betrayal.
Receipts, Red Flags, and Reddit: The First Cracks in Carrie’s Story
For a long time, anyone who sensed that something felt “off” about the Carrie narrative usually kept it to themselves. Calling out a terminally ill, wheelchair-using woman on the internet is social suicide unless you have proof, and proof is hard to get when you only know someone through edited videos and carefully curated posts. What changed, as in so many modern scams, was the slow, painstaking accumulation of receipts. People who had interacted with her offline, or who remembered earlier identities, began comparing notes in private messages and small online spaces.
The turning point came when those private doubts moved into more public forums. Users on platforms like Reddit and TikTok began collating inconsistencies: conflicting timelines about when her illness was diagnosed, stories that did not line up geographically, and claims that clashed with what former acquaintances remembered. Screenshots were shared, old posts resurfaced, and bits of publicly available information—like court listings and local news—were cross-referenced with the glowing narrative of the fearless disabled writer. Once that cross-checking started, the gap between “Carrie” and Samantha became harder to ignore.
Pop-psychologically, this is the moment when a community shifts from parasocial fandom into amateur forensic investigation. The same hyper-focus and pattern-hunting that once elevated her now flipped into reverse. Instead of searching for reasons to believe, people began scanning for contradictions. The internet has an extraordinary memory; when someone has lived a very online life across multiple aliases, traces of those older selves tend to leak through. For Carrie, the leaks became a flood.
It is important to say that not every skeptic was purely altruistic. There is always a subset of online sleuthing that leans into cruelty or spectacle. But embedded in that chaos were people who genuinely felt a duty of care—to the disability community, to potential victims, and to the public record. They were not just “haters”; they were, in a sense, early whistleblowers trying to articulate what their intuition already understood: that the emotional math of the story did not add up.
Podcasts, Documentaries, and Deep Dives: When True Crime Came Calling
Once the whispers turned into full-blown online threads, it was only a matter of time before professional storytellers arrived. True-crime podcasters, investigative journalists, and documentary producers recognized the narrative DNA of the case: multiple identities, cross-border fraud, vulnerable victims, and a charismatic central character whose entire persona seemed to be collapsing in real time. Long-form projects began to take shape, with production teams interviewing victims, neighbors, former friends, and subject-matter experts who specialize in fraud and pathological lying.
Some of the most detailed work emerged through dedicated podcasts and public broadcasters. Multi-episode audio series walked listeners step-by-step through Samantha’s earlier life, her alleged scams, and the transformation into “Carrie Jade.” Listeners heard from families who had trusted her as a nanny, from writers who had welcomed her into creative circles, and from investigators who pieced together welfare records, medical claims, and social media content. The polished compassion of her TikTok presence clashed sharply with these accounts of unpaid debts, emotional manipulation, and fear.
These productions did more than recap internet drama; they reframed the story as a serious case study in deception. Instead of focusing solely on the scandal, they explored how institutional blind spots and cultural biases made it easier for a white, articulate, “inspirational” woman to gain trust. They showed how officials were convinced by medical claims, how charities were drawn in by her advocacy language, and how media outlets amplified her voice with minimal verification. Layer by layer, the myth of Carrie was dismantled and replaced with something more complex, and more disturbing.
From a psychological lens, the arrival of professional investigators introduces a new kind of accountability. Parasocial relationships are deeply emotional; podcasts and documentaries, by contrast, offer structured narratives with timelines, documents, and cross-checked testimony. When audiences hear these stories laid out calmly, with dates and evidence, the spell breaks. The same audience that once defended her fiercely begins to experience cognitive dissonance: “If this is true, what does it say about my judgment?” That discomfort is painful, but it is also how collective learning happens.
Carrie Jade vs. Samantha Cookes: Untangling the Aliases and Backstories
By the time the broader public realized that “Carrie Jade Williams” and Samantha Cookes were the same person, investigators had already been tracing her movements for years. Reports and court coverage describe a woman who cycled through locations, jobs, and personas with remarkable fluidity: a caring nanny in one setting, a children’s therapist in another, an aspiring writer embedded in Irish literary circles, and—later—a disabled advocate reliant on welfare payments and community support. Each role came with its own props, jargon, and emotional hooks.
The alias “Carrie Jade Williams” was only the most recent and most successful iteration. Earlier versions of herself allegedly used married names, professional titles, or subtly tweaked spellings that made it harder for casual observers to connect the dots. For instance, a family might know her only under one surname, while a writers’ group knew her under another, and online followers knew only “Carrie.” That fragmentation of identity is not random; it functions as a kind of social compartmentalization. If trouble flares up in one area of life, the others remain temporarily intact.
From a pop-psych standpoint, this is a real-world example of what could be called “modular identity construction.” Instead of having one stable, coherent self, a person like Samantha appears to build modules—pre-packaged versions of herself that can be plugged into different social contexts. The disabled writer module. The nurturing caregiver module. The trauma-survivor module. Each module comes with a script, a look, and a set of emotional triggers that she can deploy when needed. The overlaps between them are minimized so that people from one circle cannot easily compare notes with another.
This modular approach also serves a defensive function. When accusations arise, she can retreat into another persona, delete accounts, or blame misunderstandings on mental health struggles, harassment, or “online trolls.” The real Samantha sits underneath all these layers, but she rarely has to face the full weight of her behavior at once because so few people see the entire pattern. It takes coordinated, multi-source investigations—like the ones conducted by journalists and podcasters—to pull those modules together into a single, undeniable picture.
Nannies, Airbnb Nightmares, and Fake Book Deals: Inside the Alleged Scams
The fraud narrative around Samantha is not confined to welfare payments and literary prizes. When you zoom out across years, a broader pattern emerges: inserting herself into situations that give her access to money, property, or emotionally vulnerable people, then leaving behind chaos when the truth surfaces. Families have spoken about trusting her as a nanny, only to discover disturbing inconsistencies and financial irregularities. Hosts connected to accommodation and house-sitting arrangements have described broken agreements, unpaid bills, or damage disputes that left them feeling exploited and unsafe.
In the literary sphere, the alleged deceptions took on a more intellectual flavor. There were claims of book deals, writing accolades, and creative projects that often sounded more solid than they really were. The prestigious nonfiction prize she initially received under the Carrie persona, and later lost, is one of the most high-profile examples. But in the shadows of that headline, there are quieter stories from small writing groups and local communities: proposals that never materialized, collaborations that evaporated, and peers who felt used for access or clout.
Online, the scams could look like classic social media grifts: fundraising appeals framed as essential for urgent care, “last chance” financial support, or emotional pressure to buy from affiliate links and products positioned as tools of empowerment. Some supporters reported giving money, time, or professional favors based on the belief that they were helping a terminally ill woman navigate a hostile world. When the allegations of fraud became public, those supporters were left with more than just bank statements; they had to process the emotional hangover of having been manipulated through compassion.
Psychologically, what ties these scams together is the strategic use of roles that are difficult to question. Nannies and caregivers are, by definition, entrusted with what we care about most: our children, our homes, our routines. Disabled advocates are trusted with our desire to be decent, inclusive humans. Aspiring authors are trusted with intimate truths and creative vulnerabilities. When any of those roles are weaponized, the betrayal lands on multiple levels. It is not just a broken contract; it is a violation of the archetype itself.
Weaponized Vulnerability: How She Monetized Disability and Sympathy
When people think of monetization on social media, they usually picture brand deals, ad revenue, and maybe a Patreon link for bonus content. In the Carrie narrative, monetization looked softer on the surface and, for that reason, more powerful. It showed up as small fundraisers framed around accessibility needs, calls for support framed as “help me keep writing while my health declines,” and emotional appeals to share, comment, and boost her visibility so she could “leave a legacy.” All of that sits comfortably inside the culture of mutual aid and community care that many online spaces genuinely rely on.
The line crossed when those emotional appeals were layered on top of alleged lies about diagnosis, prognosis, and financial need. If someone says, “I am terminally ill, the state won’t help me, I need you,” the ask is not purely transactional; it is moral. Followers are nudged into seeing their support as proof of their own goodness and humanity. That psychological framing makes it harder to say no and almost impossible to pull back once money has changed hands. To question the narrative is to risk being labeled cruel, ableist, or selfish.
This is the core of weaponized vulnerability: using the aesthetics and language of openness to disarm critical thinking. Tears, medical jargon, stories about discrimination, and references to trauma create a halo of sanctity around the speaker. Done honestly, that kind of sharing can build solidarity and change policies. Done dishonestly, it becomes a kind of emotional blackmail dressed up as intimacy. Instead of “I trust you with my truth,” the underlying message becomes, “You are obligated to believe me and pay for it.”
In the context of narcissistic dynamics, this looks like a sophisticated blend of victimhood and heroism. Carrie positioned herself as both deeply wounded and uniquely strong, the person who suffered the most yet still showed up to care for others. That duality is intoxicating because it allows followers to feel like they are supporting a hero and rescuing a victim at the same time. The more dramatic her story became, the more people felt invested in seeing her “win,” financially and emotionally.
The Real Fallout: Victims, Disabled Advocates, and Betrayed Audiences
The most obvious victims in this story are the individuals and families who lost money, time, safety, or reputation because they trusted Samantha under one of her many personas. Some were left with empty bank accounts or unpaid bills. Others were left with more intangible but equally serious harms: children who were exposed to unsafe situations, parents who felt they had failed to protect their families, friends who realized they had vouched for someone whose story was fabricated. The fraud was not only financial; it was relational.
Disabled advocates and chronically ill people form another, broader circle of impact. For years, they fought to get the public to take their lives and needs seriously. When a high-profile “advocate” turns out to be faking or exaggerating illness claims for personal gain, it reinforces harmful stereotypes that disabled people are faking it, exaggerating, or gaming the system. That suspicion does not fall only on the scammer; it splashes onto genuine advocates who now have to work even harder to be believed about their diagnoses, pain levels, and accommodation requests.
Then there is the audience—the thousands of people who poured emotional energy into supporting Carrie online. Many were themselves disabled, neurodivergent, or dealing with trauma. They saw her as a mirror, a mentor, or proof that someone “like them” could take up space and be seen. When the fraud narrative broke, those followers had to process a double wound: the loss of a figure they loved and the shame of having been deceived. That shame can curdle into self-blame, cynicism, or a refusal to trust anyone online again.
From a pop-psych lens, that aftermath looks a lot like the emotional crash after leaving a toxic relationship. People second-guess their judgment, replay old content for clues they missed, and sometimes swing to the opposite extreme—where trust feels dangerous, and empathy feels like a liability. If we want to learn anything useful from the case, it is not that people should stop caring, but that communities need better tools for vetting, boundary-setting, and accountability without sliding into cruelty or witch hunts.
Courtrooms and Consequences: What Finally Caught Up with Samantha Cookes
Eventually, the questions and investigations moved out of comment sections and into courtrooms. In Ireland, prosecutors brought a detailed case outlining how Samantha had secured disability-related welfare payments by persuading a doctor she had Huntington’s disease and then claiming those supports over an extended period. Evidence showed that the alleged illness formed the foundation for a stream of state payments and other financial benefits, all while she constructed the Carrie persona online and in literary spaces.
Media coverage of the trial highlighted several striking elements: the scale of the fraud, the meticulous way she built her medical narrative, and the emotional toll on those who had advocated for her in good faith. Judges and reporters alike noted that this was not a spur-of-the-moment mistake; it was a sustained pattern of deception. Ultimately, Samantha was sentenced to a multi-year prison term, with commentary from the bench emphasizing the deliberate and prolonged nature of the scheme and the need to protect both public funds and public trust.
Separate reporting and feature pieces have also described how her story is now being used as a case study in pathological lying and chronic fraud. True-crime documentaries and radio series have traced her earlier convictions in the UK, the alleged scams involving childcare and accommodation, and the way those older behaviors foreshadowed the Carrie era. In that sense, the courtroom verdict does more than punish one person; it serves as a formal record that the public narrative was false, giving victims and skeptics a form of collective validation.
Psychologically, accountability is a crucial part of breaking the spell. Without a clear societal response—legal consequences, public corrections, and formal acknowledgments of harm—scammers can rebrand and start again elsewhere. A sentence, while imperfect and never able to fully repair the damage, sends a message that “charismatic” and “tragic” are not shields against scrutiny. It also provides a pivot point for audiences to shift from self-blame to a more accurate understanding of how expertly they were manipulated.
Why Carrie Jade “Does Not Exist”: Lessons in Online Literacy and Narcissistic Fraud
The phrase “does not exist” in relation to Carrie is more than a catchy title; it is a reminder that an entire online persona can be built from carefully arranged fragments. Photos, props, diagnosis language, and emotionally charged anecdotes can be stitched together in a way that feels real, even when the underlying story is not. In that sense, Carrie was never a full person; she was an avatar constructed to meet the emotional demands of the algorithm and the financial needs of the woman behind her.
One of the strongest lessons here is about digital literacy. Audiences are increasingly aware of filters and photo editing, but they are less prepared for narrative editing—the ability to curate life events and identities to manufacture moral authority. Learning to hold two truths at once is key: people can be genuinely vulnerable and manipulative; stories can be moving and incomplete; inspiration can coexist with exploitation. The goal is not to become robotic skeptics but to develop a slower, more evidence-aware kind of empathy.
For those interested in narcissistic dynamics, the case provides a near-textbook look at how grandiosity and victimhood can fuse. Samantha, through Carrie, invited the world to see her as uniquely persecuted and uniquely special. The frauds, in this reading, become not just a way to get money but a way to secure a starring role in the story of other people’s lives. Followers were not just donors or viewers; they were an audience in an ongoing performance where her suffering and resilience were the main characters.
If there is a hopeful thread, it lies in how the story eventually unraveled. Victims spoke out. Journalists dug in. Disabled advocates refused to let their work be overshadowed by a fraud. Ordinary followers did the uncomfortable thing of saying, “I was wrong,” and sharing what they had learned. That collective pushback is what turns a scandal into a cautionary tale. The next time a beautifully packaged tragedy appears in a feed, more people will know to ask: “Is this person accountable to anyone beyond their followers?” and “What would verification look like here?”
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Disclaimer
This post is intended for informational and educational purposes only and reflects a good-faith interpretation of publicly available reporting, court coverage, and documentary material at the time of writing. It should not be treated as legal, medical, mental health, or financial advice.
The psychological framing offered here is pop-psych commentary and is not a substitute for diagnosis, therapy, or professional assessment. If you are dealing with fraud, abuse, or mental health concerns, please consult qualified professionals and appropriate authorities in your jurisdiction.
All individuals are entitled to due process and the opportunity to respond to allegations. Any errors or changes in the public record over time are unintentional, and readers are encouraged to consult primary sources and up-to-date reporting when forming their own conclusions.
References and Further Reading
RTÉ News. “Number of remarkable features to Samantha Cookes case.” RTÉ. https://www.rte.ie/news/2025/0308/1500868-samantha-cookes/
The Irish Times. “Serial fraudster jailed for three years for ‘deliberate fraud’ over protracted period.” The Irish Times. https://www.irishtimes.com/crime-law/courts/2025/03/05/samantha-cookes-jailed-for-three-years-for-deliberate-fraud-over-protracted-period/
The Journal. “Samantha Cookes jailed for three years for ‘carefully orchestrated’ welfare fraud.” TheJournal.ie. https://www.thejournal.ie/samantha-cookes-jailed-social-welfare-fraud-tralee-6640544-Mar2025/
Irish Examiner. “Samantha Cookes fooled GP into believing she had Huntington's.” Irish Examiner. https://www.irishexaminer.com/news/courtandcrime/arid-41577973.html
Vice. “TikTok Scammer Stripped of Prestigious Literary Prize.” VICE. https://www.vice.com/en/article/carrie-jade-williams-bodley-head-ft/
Hunger Magazine. “TikTok, fraud and literacy: How a lifelong scammer and disability advocate fooled the media.” Hunger Magazine. https://hungermag.com/editorial/tiktok-fraud-and-literacy-how-a-lifelong-scammer-and-disability-advocate-fooled-the-media
RTÉ. “Making Bad Nanny: how we uncovered the truth behind ‘Carrie Jade’.” RTÉ Culture. https://www.rte.ie/culture/2025/0512/1512393-making-bad-nanny-how-we-uncovered-the-truth-behind-carrie-jade/
RTÉ. “The Real Carrie Jade” (podcast series). RTÉ Documentary on One. https://www.rte.ie/radio/podcasts/series/40750-the-real-carrie-jade/
Apple Podcasts. “The Real Carrie Jade.” Apple Podcasts listing. https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/the-real-carrie-jade/id1775896290
Apple Podcasts / Acast. “Carrie Jade Does Not Exist.” Always True Crime. https://podcasts.apple.com/ba/podcast/carrie-jade-does-not-exist/id1714273128 and https://shows.acast.com/carrie-jade-does-not-exist
Irish Central. “Bad Nanny: Samantha Cookes documentary on RTÉ, BBC.” IrishCentral. https://www.irishcentral.com/culture/entertainment/bad-nanny-documentary
The Irish Times. “The Samantha Cookes story: Inside the mind of a pathological liar.” The Irish Times. https://www.irishtimes.com/crime-law/2025/03/14/the-samantha-cookes-story-inside-the-mind-of-a-pathological-liar/
The Telegraph. “My writing group was infiltrated by a serial fraudster who said she had Huntington’s.” The Telegraph. https://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/2025/03/14/writing-group-infiltrated-by-fraudster-samantha-cookes/
Reddit. “Carrie Jade Williams – a sort of update.” r/ireland discussion thread. https://www.reddit.com/r/ireland/comments/1deiwim/carrie_jade_williams_a_sort_of_update/
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