Naturally, I’d heard of the show The Gilmore Girls, but it had never been high on my list of must-watch TV. Until recently.

Lately, I’ve been in a funk. Understatement, actually. I’ve been in quite a state, tearing up more and more, actually weeping over items fed to me by my algorithm about the state of world affairs, our leaders, and where we are headed. That, in combination with some personal blows surrounding the health of a family member, has me a bit overwhelmed. Again, I’m underselling it. Cut to me squatting in the hallway of a medical facility, hiding below a window and the occupants behind it so no one can see me shakily sobbing as I try to privately and oh-so-unsuccessfully hold myself together.

Are you still reading? I wouldn’t blame you if you’ve left. And what in God’s name does any of this have to do with the Gilmore Girls?

The other night, huddled under the blankets, I swallowed back the ever-present lump in my throat and hit the play button for the show. I was not immediately drawn in. Made about 20 years ago, the show is fundamentally about the relationship between a mother and daughter who are close in age. The single mother character (played by Lauren Graham – who freaking glows with beauty and sparkle) is 32 and had her daughter (played by Alexis Bledel) at age 16. They are portrayed more as friends than in a traditional mother-daughter relationship. Okay, but it didn’t feel all that real to me. Like the show was forced to fit the script—an over-zany, over-written, super unrealistic one, set in the oh-so-charming fictional small town of Stars Hollow, Connecticut.

My face twisted with incredulity, not buying into the saccharine, and after a couple of episodes I turned it off. The next night, though, kind of knowing what I was in for and feeling that the pace of the show was a tonic I should effing swallow to get me off the cliff of emotions life was throwing, I tried again. This time, it clicked. The characters began to deepen, the storylines held together; it didn’t play dumb, but rather dished up delightful, antique-sorbet-cups of happiness mixed with love and life. Bouquets of incredible dialog were written by a Sorkin-like genius by someone named Amy Sherman-Palladino. She went on to create, write, and direct The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel. I mean, wow. Do I need to go on? The woman is a bona fide phenom. I will now watch everything she has ever written. My previous blog on The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel – here. Had I known that the creator of the two shows was the same, I would have tuned into the Gilmore Girls a long time ago.

And the thing is, one night after watching a slew of the episodes, I turned off the light and went to sleep and dreamed of them. And the town. It was a feeling of them being in my world, or me being in theirs, and when I woke the next morning, I felt better. Like I had a new companion. I’d visited with a safe and hopeful friend, and one that only made me feel good.

Some shows are like that. Good books too. They can transport. It’s important to do that sometimes. To take a breath, to release the grip on the metaphorical reins of your runaway team of horses that are racing toward a cliff’s edge. To remember, recall, and fantasize about the core of who you are, or who you want to be, or how life should be. Messy, yes. Complicated, too. Painful, of course. But there is beauty. And decency, and sometimes you get a happily ever after.

But most importantly, there is love. Loads of it. Grip those reins. Close your eyes and hold them tightly. They’re still taking you to where you’re meant to go, but you may just swerve in the nick of time and onto a course filled with yellow daisies. Still destined for where you know not, but the ride may be gentler.

Thank you, Amy and Lauren. I’m going to go hug my dog.