The Nights I Find Home In Television
- Zainy Aryf
- Nov 19, 2025
- 4 min read
There’s a good chance you’ve been rewatching your comfort shows during dinner. If so, you’re in good company. Zainy, our Film and TV writer, shares the ones she always goes back to and why they never get old.
There’s something so healing about rewatching a show you already know by heart. The kind of series that doesn’t need your full attention, just your quiet company. You press play, and suddenly you’re back in a familiar world—the one where Lorelai and Rory talk too fast, where friends never seem to go home, where the chaos of modern family somehow makes your own life feel a little lighter.
In between the stress of deadlines and the dull hum of college routines, these shows become a safe place to land. They don’t ask for much. They just hold space for you—in laughter, in background noise, in the moments where real life feels a bit too much to carry.
There’s a reason we keep returning to the same episodes, even when we know exactly what happens next. It’s not about surprises anymore. It’s about familiarity. The way you can predict the punchlines, the rhythm of the laughter, the comforting sense that everything will turn out fine in twenty minutes. In a world that constantly changes, they stay the same, reminding us of stability in a way nothing else quite can.
Gilmore Girls, for instance, is an autumn dream with coffee cups, mother-daughter banter, and small-town chaos that somehow feels like home. There’s a certain serenity in hearing Lorelai complain about snow (or the lack thereof) or Rory stress over her very first “D” grade; it mirrors our own academic worries, but through a softer, sepia-tinted lens. When I watch it after a long day, I feel as though I’m part of a world that moves slower, one that still believes in late-night diner talks and second chances.
Then there’s Friends. Probably the most classic comfort show of all time. It’s chaotic, unrealistic, and sometimes outdated, but there’s something about it that just works. The idea that you can have your chosen family, that there’s always someone waiting for you at Central Perk, makes the world feel less lonely. We all have our “Ross moments” when we’re stuck in our own heads, and our “Phoebe moments” when we’re gleefully weird and free. Maybe that’s what makes it so comforting: it reflects every version of us.
On days that feel a bit too heavy, I find myself turning to Modern Family. There’s something so grounding about its mix of chaos and heart. The characters are ridiculous, yet their love for one another feels genuine, and you come to know them well enough to love them too. It reminds me that no family is perfect, and that very imperfection is what makes a family feel like home. Over the years, I’ve found comfort in Phil Dunphy’s optimism, Gloria’s passion, Cam and Mitch’s quiet tenderness… They make me laugh, but they also show that warmth can exist even in the loudest, messiest moments.
And then there’s The Big Bang Theory, the ultimate background noise show. It’s light enough to play while folding laundry or half-studying, but funny enough to pull you in when you need a mental break. It's a show about people who don’t quite fit in, finding their own version of belonging (what a dream!).In the chaos of our twenties, when nothing feels certain, the idea of finding your people — no matter how awkward or unconventional—feels oddly reassuring.
University life can feel like a loop of deadlines, caffeine, and quiet panic. Sometimes, it’s hard to find calm in the real world. But comfort shows give us a small piece of it—even if it’s borrowed. They remind us to breathe, to laugh, to rest. Watching an episode of Sex and the City before bed might not solve our problems, but it can help us to feel at peace with our own life choices— if you’re not Carrie dealing with Mr. Big again, you’re doing just fine.
There’s no shame in needing that kind of escape. In fact, I think it’s brave to choose something gentle when the world feels harsh. To choose laughter when you’re overwhelmed. To choose familiarity instead of something new. To permit yourself to exist without pressure. To just be.
So tonight, when you’re too tired to read or talk or think, let yourself sink into the couch. Press play on the show you’ve seen a hundred times. Let the opening theme song wrap around you like a blanket. Let yourself forget, just for a little while, that the world outside your screen is loud and demanding.
Because sometimes, healing could simply be Gilmore Girls on a Thursday, noodles in your lap, and twenty quiet minutes of knowing everything’s okay.
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