In February, somewhere between the sprawling skies above Addis Ababa and the frostbitten tarmac of Montreal, a twist of fate—disguised as a cold virus—hijacked my body and gifted me Ted Lasso. Confined to my apartment for three feverish, jetlagged days, I surrendered to the show like a parched wanderer. What began as a half-hearted distraction on a long-haul flight became an obsession. Those first two episodes flickered on my seatback screen, but it was the message that pulled me in. Each episode stitched together something in me that had fractured since the US elections. I’m not alone in saying I’d carried a pit in my stomach for months.
After the finale, I played Sam Ryder’s Fought and Lost on repeat—not just to relive the story’s ending, but to cling to its stubborn, radiant hope. The world outside my window had become heavy, cynical, and despairing, but in Ted’s universe, kindness was a superpower—an escapism I needed to believe could still be real.
The heartwarming Apple TV+ series about an American football coach navigating English soccer has emerged as an antidote to our collective exhaustion. In a world where divisive rhetoric, dishonesty, and authoritarian posturing dominate headlines, Ted Lasso’s unwavering emphasis on kindness, empathy, and resilience feels revolutionary. Jason Sudeikis’ Ted disarms hostility with relentless optimism, leading not through control but compassion. His refusal to weaponize anger or stoop to cruelty stands in stark contrast to the bullying tactics of certain global figures, offering a quiet but potent reminder that strength can coexist with vulnerability. At a time when many feel powerless against systemic dysfunction, Ted Lasso argues that hope is not naive—it’s a radical act of resistance.
I know. I know. I’m the last person to watch the show. You already know what Ted brings to the table. But for the handful who haven’t…
Instead of demonizing opponents, Ted seeks common ground—whether with a cynical journalist, a narcissistic star player, or a rival coach. The show’s broader thesis is clear: progress isn’t achieved through domination but through collaboration and mutual respect. A character like Rebecca, who begins the series consumed by bitterness, learns that healing comes not from revenge but from accountability and connection. Such narratives counter the toxic notion that “winning” requires trampling others, offering a blueprint for resolving real-world conflicts without sacrificing humanity.
Crucially, the series normalizes vulnerability as a form of strength, challenging the hyper-masculine, transactional values often glorified in politics. Ted’s openness about his anxiety and grief dismantles the myth that leaders must project invincibility. His willingness to admit mistakes and seek help—whether from a therapist (oh, those Diamond Dogs) or a friend—models a healthier form of leadership, one that prioritizes collective well-being over ego. In a climate where many feel gaslit by leaders who deny flaws and double down on deceit, Ted Lasso reminds us that struggling is human, and asking for support is not weakness but wisdom.
Ultimately, the show’s greatest gift is its belief in redemption. Characters repeatedly transcend their worst impulses, suggesting that change is possible even in the face of entrenched cynicism. In a world where authoritarianism and misinformation make the future seem bleak, Ted Lasso offers a counter-vision: communities built on trust, laughter, and shared purpose. It doesn’t ignore darkness—it simply insists that light can prevail, one small act of decency at a time. For audiences weary of feeling overwhelmed, the series is more than entertainment; it’s a masterclass in the power of human connection, reminding us that our choices matter, and that kindness, however quietly, can still reshape the world.
And so, I invite you to read Elizabeth Strout’s latest novel, Tell Me Everything. Bob Burgess is Ted Lasso on the page. Ted’s legacy lives on. We are not as alone as we think.