It is a typical Friday afternoon, and I am sitting in a hair salon chair. As the scissors snip around me, my stylist pauses, looks up through the mirror, and asks the familiar weekend question: “Do you have any plans tonight?”
Without hesitation, I reply, “Yeah, I’m Jewish.”
With eager excitement that immediately cuts through the hum of the salon, she beams and says, “So you have Shabbat?!”
I feel an instant wave of delight, grateful that I do not need to launch into a foundational explanation of weekly Jewish rituals. She continues, eager to share her connection: “My best friend growing up was Jewish and I always went to her house for Shabbat.”
A few minutes later, as we chat further, I mention that I am a rabbi. Her eyes light up again. “You know, I have to ask… there’s this show I was watching on Netflix…”
Before she can even finish the premise, I jump in. “‘Nobody Wants This’?”
She bursts out laughing. “I guess a lot of people ask you about it.”
I smile and nod. My response used to be cynical, almost defensive: “Yeah, and just like the title… I don’t want it.” But recently, I have started wondering if what the romantic comedy series actually offers is far more valuable than my initial nitpicky frustrations and professional grievances allowed me to see.
When the first season of the Netflix series premiered, I was still deep in my studies at rabbinical school. I watched it with a heavily critical, protective eye, deeply curious about how mainstream media would portray the sacred role I cared so profoundly about and the traditional world I was dedicating my entire life to. Naturally, I found myself rolling my eyes at all the exact same tropes and technical inaccuracies that cultural critics and commentators have already written about ad nauseam.
Then, during my final year of rabbinical training, I enrolled in a specialized course called Rabbis in the Media. The class forced me to dust off the film analysis skills I had largely abandoned since earning an undergraduate minor in media studies. It challenged me to do something I hadn’t really done when I first watched “Nobody Wants This”: stop viewing the show purely as a working rabbi looking for everything it got wrong, and start thinking about it as a narrative construct and a piece of storytelling.
So many people within our communities had expressed deep contempt for the unflattering portrayal of Jewish women in the show, and honestly, I was right there with them. But beginning to analyze how these characters function structurally to serve the larger plot was my first major shift in understanding the series. Many viewers have argued that the Jewish female characters are depicted as mean, demanding, and judgmental, while the protagonist, Joanne, and her sister, Morgan, serve as their carefree, free-willed foils. And I completely understand where that interpretation comes from. But looking back, I now think we might be viewing those dynamics through far too narrow a lens.
I am no longer convinced that the moral divide is actually as simplistic as the Jewish women being uniformly unlikeable while Joanne and Morgan are universally likable. In fact, if we look closely at prestige television as a whole, most of the compelling characters on successful shows are deeply flawed and unlikeable at times. Take Eleanor Shellstrop in the first season of “The Good Place,” for example. She starts out selfish, morally bankrupt, and unkind. Yet by the series finale, she transforms into an empathetic, fiercely loyal person deeply invested in the success of others. Fictional characters need narrative room—and valid reasons—to grow.
I wonder if, in our completely understandable cultural sensitivity to how Jewish women are represented on screen, we have occasionally fallen into the trap of treating these specific characters as universal representatives of all Jewish women, rather than simply allowing them to be flawed characters in a fictional story. The second season already provides those characters with significantly more dimension and depth, and I find myself genuinely curious about where a third season might allow them to go.
The second major revelation that changed my mind about the show was the realization—and the vital reminder—that it is fundamentally a conversion story, rather than a standard interfaith romance. And look, I am very much the product of an interfaith family myself; my mother is Ashkenazi, while my father is a non-religious Dominican. This perspective is not coming from a place of criticizing interfaith relationships. Instead, recognizing the narrative arc fundamentally shifts how a viewer experiences the emotional journey of the show.
Joanne is loosely based on Erin Foster, a podcaster who fell in love with a Jewish music industry executive and ultimately chose to convert to Judaism before their marriage. Naturally, the writers of a television comedy cannot possibly have the protagonist convert in the very first few seasons. Imagine if she converts in season one—where does the show structurally go from there? We need dramatic tension. We need plot progression. We need character growth.
So, if that is the trajectory of the series, and if a hypothetical third season centers heavily on Joanne’s formal conversion, we are looking at Kristen Bell—one of the coolest, funniest, and most recognizable actresses of our generation—portraying a spiritual journey to become a member of the Jewish people. She is actively entering the homes, the television screens, and the hearts of millions of non-Jewish viewers, showing them firsthand how meaningful and incredible it is to be part of our peoplehood. As she falls deeply in love with Noah, the rabbi character, she simultaneously falls in love with Judaism, and perhaps the audience watching at home does, too.
What a remarkably beautiful way to showcase the unique beauty, warmth, and depth of Judaism during a historical moment when global antisemitism feels completely out of control and overwhelming.
That does not mean the show suddenly gets every cultural nuance right. I firmly believe it could and should do a much better job reflecting the diverse, multicultural faces of contemporary Los Angeles Jewry, for instance. The Jewish spaces of Los Angeles are vibrant, beautiful mosaics full of Jewish Latinos, Persian Jews, Asian Jews, white Jews, Black Jews, and so much more. The show, at least thus far, has largely omitted that rich diversity.
And yet, I do not believe that the fact the show sometimes falls short means we need to completely abandon or discount the genuinely positive cultural impact it is having. I certainly have my ongoing criticisms, but I am deliberately allowing myself a wider, more generous lens. This show makes Jewish life, community, and tradition look desirable and compelling, and I am genuinely glad that wider audiences are being exposed to something I already know to be profoundly true: being Jewish is amazing.
My hair stylist was genuinely excited to meet an actual rabbi and have an open, enthusiastic conversation about Judaism and tradition. She is far from the first non-Jewish person who has eagerly wanted to talk to me about the show and what it represents.
We eventually parted ways that Friday afternoon—me with my freshly styled hair, and her eager for our next encounter in the salon chair, when we can finally catch up and talk about season three. And for the first time, I am genuinely looking forward to that conversation, too.
For generations, those navigating the profound waters of personal tragedy have frequently encountered a well-intentioned yet deeply misleading cultural idiom: "Grief is just a season." For many newly bereaved individuals, the phrase acts as a temporary psychological lifeline, suggesting that the unbearable weight of loss is inherently fleeting, bound by a calendar, and destined to conclude with a return to normalcy.
However, for individuals who have walked the long, winding path of bereavement for decades, that premise dissolves under the weight of lived experience. Melissa Hull, a master coach, international speaker, best-selling author, and CEO, knows this reality intimately. Twenty-five years after the tragic drowning death of her young son, Drew, Hull reflects on a quarter-century of living with loss, offering a profound perspective that challenges how society perceives and interacts with sorrow. Grief, Hull argues, is not a temporary meteorological shift in the human experience. Rather, it is a permanent, complex language—one that individuals are forced to learn when their world splits apart, shaping how they navigate existence forever.
Like any intricate tongue, mastering the language of grief takes time, patience, and fluency. It requires transitioning from being completely swallowed by the sorrow to learning how to articulate and inhabit it.
The First Words We Learn in Grief
In the immediate aftermath of a catastrophic loss, the language of grief does not begin with coherent thoughts, philosophical musings, or quiet wisdom. In its earliest iterations, grief only knows how to scream. It manifests as a roar—a guttural, breathless, and bottomless wail that human language struggles to contain or define.
Recalling the hours immediately following Drew’s passing, Hull describes a sound escaping her body that she did not recognize as her own. It was entirely raw, profoundly primal, and undeniably the absolute truth of her shattered reality. That visceral outburst served as her introduction to a lexicon she never wanted to study, marking the painful genesis of a lifelong education in survival.
When the World Speaks a Different Language
One of the most isolating and painful dimensions of long-term bereavement is the immediate realization of how few people within one’s daily orbit are fluent in the same emotional dialect.
A grieving parent might find themselves pushing a cart through a local grocery store with a shattered heart, surrounded by strangers casually discussing weekend social plans, household chores, or upcoming birthday celebrations. Upon returning to the professional sphere, society often expects an individual to seamlessly "be okay" again, operating under the flawed assumption that a resumption of routine equates to a restoration of the former self.
These societal expectations rarely stem from malice or a desire to cause harm. Instead, colleagues, acquaintances, and even distant friends are simply operating under an entirely different cultural framework—a language defined by productivity goals, operational tasks, and superficial pleasantries.
Meanwhile, the grieving individual remains suspended in a different realm entirely. They find themselves listening intently for faint echoes of a lost child’s voice in an otherwise silent room, deciphering hidden meanings in a passing song, catching a familiar scent on the breeze, or noticing a flicker of light that registers as a personal message. They hold onto physical artifacts left behind—a child’s toothbrush, a favorite cup, or a worn-out piece of clothing. They are speaking fluent grief, often while feeling entirely misunderstood by the world around them.
Finding the Words to Stay Alive
Eventually, though the timeline varies entirely from person to person, a critical psychological shift occurs. The survivor stops merely trying to survive the crushing weight of the pain and begins attempting to understand it.
At this juncture, grief begins a gradual transformation: shifting from chaotic internal pandemonium into communication, from a piercing scream into a reflective whisper, and from an overwhelming force that flattens the spirit into a dialogue that speaks directly to the soul, provided the individual is willing to listen.
Reflecting on her own journey, Hull remembers picking up a journal once again, even when she felt she had nothing profound or eloquent to document. Her early entries were stark and minimalistic: "I got out of bed today. I fed the dog. I cried in the car."
Even those painfully simple sentences represented significant progress. They provided a tangible shape to an abstract sorrow, establishing a rudimentary rhythm within a chaotic emotional storm and interpreting the language of grief one fragile word at a time.
The Evolution of the Language
Over extended periods, the dialect in which grief speaks undergoes profound transformations. In the beginning stages, the language is constructed entirely of sharp, unyielding pain. In time, that pain evolves into memory. Eventually, memory matures into perspective. And finally, in moments when it is least expected, grief circles back to become love once more.
This is not necessarily the physical, tactile love of the past—not the toddler cuddles, infectious giggles, or hand-holding moments of early childhood. Instead, it transforms into a spiritual, infinite, and deeply knowing kind of affection. It is a love that transcends the traditional boundaries of time and space, reaching the individual during moments of profound stillness.
Hull notes that she still feels Drew’s enduring presence in subtle, everyday occurrences: the way a sudden breeze sweeps through a room, the specific lyrics of an unexpected song playing on the radio, or hearing a stranger laugh with a cadence that mirrors her son’s. This phenomenon represents grief adopting an entirely new dialect, where love answers back across the divide.
Grief Fluency in the Real World
Achieving fluency in the language of grief does not mean the grieving process eventually stops or disappears. Rather, it means learning how to grieve well. It represents the acquisition of skills that allow sorrow to move fluidly through the human spirit without taking total control of it.
An individual with grief fluency learns when to voice their loss and when to hold it in a protective silence. They learn how to fully participate in moments of genuine joy while simultaneously carrying the weight of their absence with grace and dignity. This is the essence of fluency: learning how to inhabit the complex language of grief while actively constructing a life that remains worth living.
This emotional literacy also fundamentally transforms interpersonal relationships. Understanding one’s own grief equips a person to communicate more honestly with others. It teaches the invaluable ability to articulate personal boundaries and express vulnerability without hesitation, allowing someone to state "I am not okay" without feeling the need to apologize for their emotional state. Furthermore, it fosters the capacity to hold compassionate space for others during their own hardships without feeling pressured to "fix" their pain, cultivating a deeper capability to sit in discomfort, bear witness, and remain fully present.
Hull credits this journey with reshaping her entire relational landscape, making her a more attuned mother to her surviving children, a stronger partner, a dedicated friend, and a reliable guide for others navigating similar tragedies. This transformation did not occur because she discovered a way to "get over" the profound loss of her son, but rather because she learned how to stay present with her grief, with herself, and with the world, choosing to continue living fully.
You Don’t Have to Be Fluent Yet
For those currently trapped in the raw, agonizing phases of grief where coherent words fail and existence makes little sense, the message from those further along the path is clear: you are not broken; you are simply learning.
Grief does not ship with a standardized dictionary, nor does it offer convenient phrasebooks or simplified translations. Fluency is earned incrementally through patient endurance and meeting oneself honestly within the darkness. With time, those enduring the storm may find themselves articulating their sorrow in a manner that helps another isolated soul feel seen and understood. Eventually, they will notice beauty in the world again, realizing that their profound loss has paradoxically taught them to appreciate existence with greater depth.
Ultimately, achieving this fluency brings a realization that stands as a testament to enduring attachment: the survivor did not simply get over the loss, nor did they let go of the bond. Instead, they learned how to speak the language of their grief.
Society does not need to silence grief; rather, it needs to afford it a robust vocabulary. There is no need to desperately outrun sorrow when one can learn to understand its unique rhythms. Grief is neither a temporary season nor a linear checklist, but a sacred language that, once learned, illuminates the path toward living again.
