When I heard your name for the first time, I sneered openly. How stupid, I thought. How silly. It’s because of that teenage stubbornness to try new things that I was delayed in meeting you by a few years. I can’t even remember what made me give you a shot — in all honesty, it was probably the fact that you were running in CONSTANT syndication on FX, or more likely the pure visual appeal of Spike — but once I did at age 17, I was hooked.
You taught me so much at a time in my life where nothing was constant and everything was confusing. Through demons and witches and near-apocalypses, you related to me in a way that no one else could. Sure, sometimes the metaphors were heavy-handed. But they worked. They touched my untouchable teen heart and, as a woman now approaching 30, I find there’s still more I can learn from you as I go through your episodes once again via the miracle of Netflix.
You taught me that I wasn’t the only person who felt invisible to the point of actually being invisible.
You taught me that while you’re longing for someone who barely recognizes you as a potential partner, that same person may be doing the same thing to someone equally untouchable.
You taught me that just because someone seems to have it all together, have it all going for them, that doesn’t make them any less human, any less hurting.
You taught me that friends can become family.
You taught me that people usually have the best intentions, even when it feels like they’re putting you through hell, and that you should forgive them.
You taught me that sometimes you must sacrifice everything for the sake of the ones you love — whether it’s your soulmate or yourself.
You taught me that just because you want to be the strong one, the one who takes it all on, doesn’t mean you can’t cry.
You taught me that people, even the ones who seem the most irredeemable, can change.
You taught me that just because a person feels right for you, it doesn’t mean they are.
You taught me that loss is a universal experience, and that just because your world stops doesn’t mean everything else does.
You taught me that grief can consume you — and that it can heal you, too.
You taught me that the only person who can (and should) complete you is you.
You taught me that the hardest thing in this world is to live in it.
And so, thanks to all you’ve taught me, I will be brave. I will live.