I AM NOT OKAY WITH THIS: A Therapeutic Coming-Of-Age Journey

A superficial reading of a few discussions in Facebook groups dedicated to series suggests that making such a claim is risky and will likely stir up the biggest fans. So be it—this must be said clearly: I Am Not Okay with This is a better series than The End of the F***ing World.

Warning! This text reveals plot details.

The comparison of both titles is entirely justified: they originated in the imagination of comic creator Charles Forsman, were brought to the small screen by producer Jonathan Entwistle, and hail from the Netflix family—though it is worth recalling that the first season of The End of the F***ing World was produced by Britain’s Channel 4, with the streaming platform holding only international distribution rights. Naturally, the two stories share much in both narrative and visual layers, yet the newest production functions independently without support from its older sister, elbowing its way confidently into the crowded field of new releases.

First and foremost, one must appreciate Entwistle’s development as a screenwriter.

I Am Not Okay with This is no longer the shrill, overstated tale of two teenage misfits for whom the shouted-with-a-British-accent vulgar fucks are the only outlet for feelings of abandonment, loneliness, and failure in the face of rampant injustice. Over seven brief episodes, Sydney Novak’s story comprises a far greater number of hesitations, stumblings, comedies of error, and charming moments free of heavy-handed stylization.

Watching the girl’s reactions to the world around her sends chills of embarrassment down one’s spine—not because anything is poorly written, but because her crippling shyness and the aching sense of not fitting in are deeply familiar, easy to recognize from one’s own past.

It fits perfectly with the viewer who remembers the charms of school years, like the prehistoric sweaters the heroine wears.

Of course, much credit goes to Sophia Lillis as the protagonist. The actress—already known from Sharp Objects and It—is wholly present in the role; one never senses an actor at work, never hears a false note that might shatter the illusion. Her tousled short hair, darting gaze, shame-filled smile, and—above all—her masterful portrayal of being trapped in her own body all combine to create Sydney. Lillis shows expertly how difficult it is to emerge from the dungeon of one’s thoughts.

She does not need to prattle on about her feelings (though she inadvertently does, because someone assumed that a hateful voice-over narration would help less savvy viewers) to display the full palette of emotions: from frustration to happiness, from anger to infatuation.

Novak is every person who has ever experienced youth with its characteristic tremors and hypersensitivity to the slightest sign of impending disaster. Of course, Sydney’s behavior cannot be reduced solely to adolescent storm and stress—she has reasons for her metaphysical unease.

She lives in a small Pennsylvania town where there seems little chance for personal growth. Her family moves frequently, so she cannot build lasting, deep bonds with peers. Worst of all, at one point her father cannot bear it and commits suicide. He leaves no note, no explanation for why he severed his final tie to reality.

Although Sydney still lives with her mother and younger brother, her father’s departure—he was so idealized by her—closes the chapter on childhood. The next chapter begins with a handwriting filled with pain, despair, and fear of the changes the heroine’s body is undergoing.

The Carrie reference in the opening scene of I Am Not Okay with This guides interpretation but is ultimately empty. One does not need a feminist key to analyze the Netflix production, nor is it a product packaged with horror inserts. Yet both girls share a fundamental trait: isolation triggers transformations in their bodies, granting them superhuman powers.

In Sydney’s case, the ability to move objects by telekinesis, even unleashing a wave that topples everything around her. Significantly, these superhero attributes activate when fury overtakes her, when traumatic memories surge through her mind like storm-wracked waves. Series in which young protagonists discover great powers proliferate—one example is Netflix’s Ragnarok. It is no secret that Marvel and DC have seized control of the mass imagination. Few multi-million-dollar blockbusters lack even a hint of their superheroes. It is therefore unsurprising that similar tropes appear in television.

But invoking the superhero motif—especially for young characters—has a much deeper meaning. The return of Thor to Earth, or Sydney’s telekinesis in I Am Not Okay with This, responds to feelings of powerlessness.

Sydney Novak is an unpopular, alienated teenager who, moreover, falls in love with her closest friend. One more sign of her mismatch with accepted norms might be too much for her, yet paradoxically, fury and the urge to destroy are sometimes the only defenses preventing her from ending her own life. Her new powers help her purge self-destructive impulses.

On a side note, matters of a sexual nature are portrayed intriguingly. Some viewers might not notice that Sydney and her neighbor Stanley (Wyatt Oleff) lose their virginity together.

Comparing pimples on back and thighs leads them to bed, yet the event is barely remarked upon afterward. It is worth noting that losing their virginity (for both boy and girl) is not treated as a grand milestone—what matters more for Sydney is the kiss she shares at a party with Dina (Sofia Bryant).

Sydney’s likely non-heteronormativity fits the series’ atmosphere perfectly. The creators do not seek to deliver a definitive verdict on her sexual preferences. What counts is conveying her state of mind—embarrassment, longing for affection and love, the desire to converse with someone who will never hurt her.

Many scenes—especially between the protagonist and Stanley—foreground the humor of mismatch and nerdy awkwardness, but also the struggle to do what one’s soul dictates. For Sydney, this shows in her clothing choices, her clumsy dancing, and the mismatch between spoken words and rushing thoughts conveyed in voice-over narration.

For Stanley, it shows in his garishly colorful clothes and his shyness around women. The creators need not spell this out; the framing is such that one easily imagines their characters trembling in conversation, sweaty hands, and a swirl of confused thoughts.

Watching over all of this—like the finest work of a British dramatist—hovers the spirit of the deceased father. The writers deserve great credit for presenting this thread vividly without turning it into a tearful concert of childhood memories and nostalgia for an irretrievable loss.

The father’s face is never shown, and little is known about him; what matters is the echo he left resonating in the heroine’s heart. Sydney must first overcome her internal barriers before confronting the truth about his suicide’s causes. It seems banal, yet it is presented with subtlety. I Am Not Okay with This is a quiet series, modestly stylized, and so it may be less popular than its Forsman-created predecessor.

There are fewer catchy dialogues, fewer curses, and less pop-culture fantasizing about crime, but more provincial prose of everyday doubts and ordinary coming-of-age dilemmas.

And for that, the creators deserve applause—although they make a few mistakes, of which the voice-over narration is the most serious, they remain consistent in their choices to the end. Even the superhero inserts do not alter the overall tone. The series is still about coping with trauma and mastering emotions that wait for the right moment to explode. For this reason, the Netflix production has every chance to become a therapeutic journey for those isolated from life’s mainstream.