I have a full-blown obsession with This is Us. It’s an extreme, fanatical, ridiculously gratifying and soul-searching type of obsession.
I don’t pretend to believe my love for the show is unique. It’s popular and polarizing because it’s relevant and relatable for so many of us. I was hooked minutes into the first episode and thousands of tears later, I’m still anticipating, dreaming, and evolving like the rest of the Pearson family.
This summer I made a commitment to go public with my love of all things This Is Us. In the past I’ve somewhat floated my fandom, but this is different because I’m confessing my life altering admiration and appetite for the show. Moreover, I’m cheering and chasing creator and writer extraordinaire, Dan Fogelman.
This Is Us is known to sprinkle gut-checking insight into the audience through individual and familial storylines. But it does something so much more for me. It forces me to be acutely aware of my own empathy, decisions, and insecurities. It raises the bar for my parenting, relationship reassurance, and admission to imperfection. This fictional show embraces the messiness and magic of life, which is why it’s not only believable, but authentically awakening.
I am fixated on storylines that illustrate and illuminate the peaks and pits of ordinary lives. I am committed to ensuring my own words do the same.
It feels good to be a fan of this show. It excites and elevates me, and in today’s world, we need exactly this in excess. Sometimes it’s good to lust after something while living through something else. Stories from this show give me hope that there’s a space for my words somewhere, and so for this and countless other reasons, I’m grateful.