Last week, I decided to rewatch the HBO television show Six Feet Under, which as a teenager became something like therapy to me; something more than just entertainment: it was a crutch, a way of seeing the world, and an open, honest observation of all the complexities and challenges presented to us, all with a healthy dash of humor and an underlying theme of mortality running throughout. 

The beginning of each episode begins with a death. And usually what follows is the Fisher family—who own a funeral home—having to deal with the aftermath, and the funeral, of the person whose death we witness in the first minute or so. It sets the tone, but also builds anticipation. We know someone is going to die at the beginning of each episode. But we don’t know who they are, and we don’t know how they are going to die. Throughout, the episode might drop hints about who the person was, as well as what they meant to certain people (good and bad); and, often some of the main characters will fantasize about having conversations with the dead person during embalming. This feature allows for some of the funniest moments in the series, but also deep philosophical reflection, usually on the topic of our humanness. 

It’s a set up that works, as it keeps us engaged, and keeps us asking questions. But the death that lives through every episode, as much as it plays its part, never takes away from the life that happens. It’s a show that was unafraid to show all corners of a person’s life, and for that reason it has the effect of making a viewer feel less alone, because above all it’s about humanity: our living, breathing nature, which in the presence of mortality becomes so much more poignant, so much more honest, funny, tragic, and beautiful. 

When I finished watching, and got back to my own life, I realized as the days went by, that I missed the characters. And then I realized that I wasn’t just missing Six Feet Under, the HBO series, but also the way people were, the way society was during that time. The first episode was aired in 2001, and it ran for five seasons, until 2005. There are a few iPods, but not much in the way of iPhones: it hadn’t completely hi-jacked us then. I started to ruminate on the smartphone, and how it’s changed our humanity, the way we actually connect with others. Of course, it has given us a great deal, but it also seems to have taken away aspects that used to be a lot more prevalent. 

The characters seem more willing to articulate their internal struggles, face to face, with the other characters in the show: something I realized I do not really see anymore, at least not with the same depth, in contemporary drama shows set today on the main streaming networks. The characters in Six Feet Under also just seem more connected to one another, more able to express themselves; that closeness, even in comparable shows today, simply is not there. There’s an emotional honesty that comes through, that almost doesn’t seem possible now in similar contexts and genres. 

It can feel like a loss to leave behind a set of characters you come to love, with any show we watch, or book, and of course in real life people can come and go (for better or worse). But what really surprised me, wasn’t my mourning of the series, but of the people we used to be as a society. There was once a humanness, an emotional honesty and connectedness not just in dramas like this one, but in the way we saw and interacted with each other, that now feels lost. The answer is not, I don’t think, to go backwards and throw away the smartphone. (A) I don’t think we could and (B) they’re too useful for the practical stuff. Tech is ultimately good, and it’s probably only going to make our lives better, and easier. But still, there is a humanness portrayed in Six Feet Under that has undoubtedly been lost. How do we look forward, then, while also reviving what’s been left behind? Because from here, the things we’ve lost in our culture as a result, our now dead ways of being, are the things that seemed most alive about us, about our experience, our connections. It’s a grief that makes me long for a return to the way things were, the way we were, and I doubt I’m the only one. I’m left wondering: how can we get it back? Not just those kinds of shows, but that kind of soul.

Sunday. November 9th, 2025