This is Not a TV Review

I could never be a TV critic. Not because I can’t tell the difference between a Dutch angle and a dolly zoom (though, to be honest, I’m still working on that) nor is it because I lack the technical vocabulary to dissect plot dynamics—though admittedly, that’s also a stretch—but because every show I watch ends up doubling as a mirror for both my personal and societal reflections. And I can’t complete a TV review without spiraling into a rant about how each episode seems to be an unsolicited therapy session, dragging me through an existential crisis I didn’t sign up for, but apparently needed. So can a TV show review be too personal? Either way, this one contains spoilers about several very popular TV shows. 

Believe me, there are shows I’ve watched and rewatched obsessively, taking meticulous notes about plot structures, cinematography, and character arcs—but somehow, when it comes time to write a proper review, all my carefully prepared notes unravel into a spiral of existential self-reflection, childhood flashbacks, and an unsolicited interrogation of my own life choices.

So when I sit and try to write a review about Yellowjackets, a show about a high school girls’ soccer team whose plane crash in the wilderness leads them into a harrowing saga of survival, all I can think about is their desperate fight for survival mirroring the psychological battles we all face. I should be able to talk about the performances–the plot structure–the cinematography–but all I can think about is the uncomfortably resonant moment when Shauna stares at herself in the mirror and doesn’t recognize the person looking back. Or when adult Natalie tries to escape her past, but somehow, it’s still lodged under her skin like a splinter. Or when Tai realizes she’s still sleepwalking, still splitting herself into pieces, still becoming something she doesn’t understand.

As is the case with Yellowjackets, one might say it’s easier for me to see myself in shows that mirror my own life: a childhood in an all-girls school, with whispered betrayals, shifting alliances, and friendship as a series of secret rituals. I learned to navigate—and survive—the ruthless wilderness of adolescence, and these stories capture those truths perfectly.

But I don’t always require such an intimately personal connection to invest in a show. Context barely matters–give me vampires in Staten Island, dysfunctional spies in London, or chefs screaming in kitchens, and I’ll still find a way to see myself in their chaos. Give me office workers literally losing their minds in a clinical dystopia—I’ll end up questioning my own corporate loyalty. Maybe it’s the writer in me, or maybe fiction just makes it safer to confront the existential clutter I usually keep hidden.

I’m furiously typing this right after watching the eighth episode of Severance’s second season, “Sweet Vitriol.” My notes mention the precision of the camera work capturing Lumon Industries’ sterile, oppressive cleanliness. Meticulously designed sets—claustrophobic cubicles, glaring white corridors— invoke a futuristic yet unsettling tone. The narrative, enhanced by clever non-linear storytelling and flashbacks, promises an intellectually stimulating critique of corporate dystopia.

But instead of reviewing its technical brilliance, I find myself stuck on how profoundly personal it feels. I thought I was signing up for clever escapism. What I got was a disturbing reflection of our invasive work culture—where personal freedoms are traded for productivity, identities split into pieces, and corporate loyalty seeps into relationships. Watching Harmony’s tense reunion with her aunt Sissy in “Sweet Vitriol,” I couldn’t help but see the corrosive effects of corporate allegiance on personal bonds. Or Mark Scout standing uncertainly at the edge of his severed existence, forcing me to examine my own anxieties about identity and autonomy.

At first, it’s easy to distance myself. They’re trapped in a segmented office. I’m comfortably checking work emails from my sofa. But then reality creeps in:

• Personal autonomy stripped for corporate efficiency.
• Tasks reduced to meaningless data—workers stripped of context, connection, and purpose.
• Communities like Salt’s Neck gutted by unchecked corporate greed.

Because who hasn’t felt the invasive creep of work into personal life? Who hasn’t wrestled with the blurred line between professional obligation and personal aspiration? Who hasn’t feared that in the ceaseless pursuit of productivity—like Harmony’s former partner Hampton, who resents Lumon’s destruction of his town—a part of their humanity was being eroded?

I set out to craft a review, yet here I am, my own experiences laid bare in the mirror of a dystopian drama. This isn’t about evaluating the show’s merits as much as it is about understanding its impact on me, on us. I feel less like I’ve watched a series and more like I’ve undergone a cathartic narrative journey that resonates deeply with my life’s own storyline.

And these are just two exhibits of many. Here is a list of TV shows I failed to review: 

The Bear: Supposedly about running a high-stress kitchen, but really, it’s group therapy for anyone with perfectionist tendencies—me. It feels like looking in a mirror during a particularly tumultuous family dinner where everything must be perfect. Each episode stirs up my own perfectionist anxieties, seasoned perfectly with a sense of camaraderie that only shared suffering can cook up.

Fleabag: This series feels like it’s reading pages out of my own journal—with significantly better jokes. It’s an intense session with a therapist who loves breaking the fourth wall, delving into personal failures and messy family dynamics. It’s uncomfortably relatable, making me laugh and cringe as I recognize my own awkward attempts at navigating life. It’s not just the hot priest. It’s everything. 

Bad Sisters: I’m realizing how much women are conditioned to endure, to keep the peace, to “not make a scene”—even when it’s killing them.

Slow Horses: There’s something reassuring about watching a group of failed spies try to regain their dignity—it’s like therapy for anyone who’s ever felt overlooked or underappreciated. As someone who occasionally feels out of their depth, I find comfort in their clumsy yet determined efforts to prove themselves, one botched operation at a time.

What We Do in the Shadows: Even comedy didn’t escape my talent for turning a relaxing sitcom binge into a late-night existential spiral—Just ask my therapist (or the vampires I’m currently over-identifying with). Experiencing this show is like observing a crash course in the complexities of a found family. Here, the roommates are not just awkward and centuries old; they are a poignant reflection on the evolution of relationships and acceptance. It’s profound–and hilarious– how their eternal, undead lives mirror our own quests for belonging and the continual adaptation required to coexist and thrive together.

You get the idea.

Maybe it’s the writer in me who compulsively searches for symbolism in every mundane interaction, who can’t resist turning casual conversations into character studies, who treats TV episodes like weekly installments of self imposed personal growth homework.

Or maybe it’s because this all started when I was isolated during the pandemic, when the sole connection my friends and I had to the outside world— to life itself—came through stories unfolding on a screen. We turned TV shows into elaborate group therapy sessions, enthusiastically dissecting Fleabag‘s questionable decisions over Zoom calls (“Am I also attracted to emotionally unavailable priests, or is this just quarantine desperation talking?”), inserting ourselves into fictional chaos to pass the time and avoid confronting our own isolation.

Or maybe this impulse stretches back even further, rooted in a dull, repressed childhood spent sheltering inside stories, hiding from stifled realities. Watching a character fall apart, heal, or run from themselves has always felt infinitely safer than confronting my own wounds. But the effect remains the same: fiction isn’t just entertainment; it’s a lifeline, a mirror, a form of therapy disguised in narrative arcs and cinematography—whether I admit it or not, I’m watching myself.

So, how do you review something that cracks your soul like an egg?