My favorite TV shows

“What we have once enjoyed we can never lose. All that we love deeply becomes a part of us.”

Helen Keller

When I was young, I had this idea that the important things in life—the things that really mattered—were big. Grand gestures, monumental events, achievements with fanfare and applause. You know, the kind of moments you’d tell your grandkids about someday, if they cared to listen between scrolling through whatever futuristic social media their neural implants allowed.

But as the years went on, I realized that the things that truly shaped me, the ones that left the deepest impressions, weren’t loud or flashy. They were small, almost quiet, often slipping in under the radar when I wasn’t paying attention.

One of those things? Television.

Not the “I watched TV for 10 hours and felt my soul leave my body” kind of television. I mean the kind of shows that made you think, or laugh until you snorted, or—even rarer—cry when you didn’t expect it. The kind of shows that didn’t just entertain, but connected.

Maybe it’s because we all need a little escape from our daily grind, or maybe it’s just that TV has a way of sneaking up on you with profound truths, but over time, I found that some shows had become part of my emotional DNA.

This list isn’t just a rundown of my favorite TV shows; it’s a love letter to the ones that mattered. The ones that made a difference in small but powerful ways. The ones that reminded me, in the midst of everything, what it means to feel, to laugh, to think.

Everybody Loves Raymond

Everybody Loves Raymond is the kind of show that makes you laugh, cringe, and occasionally mutter, “That’s too real.” Sure, the dynamics between Ray, Debra, and the rest of the Barone family are often hyperbolic, but beneath the exaggerated situations is a deep well of relatability. The in-laws who won’t leave you alone, the sibling rivalry that never really goes away, the constant negotiation of marriage—it all felt like a comedic mirror to everyday life, only with punchlines delivered at a much higher success rate.

What makes Everybody Loves Raymond stand out is how it balanced its humor with heart. You’d be laughing at Ray’s inability to do anything remotely helpful around the house one minute, and then, suddenly, the show would throw a gut punch of real emotion.

The characters were flawed, but they were also deeply loving, and no matter how many arguments or miscommunications they had, you always knew they’d stick together. It was this emotional core that made the show more than just a sitcom—it made it feel like family.

And then there’s the finale—a rarity in TV land. So many great shows stumble at the finish line, but Everybody Loves Raymond nailed it. The last episode wasn’t about shocking twists or grand gestures; it was simple, heartfelt, and exactly what you wanted for the Barone family. It felt like a natural, fitting goodbye, wrapping up years of laughter and love in a way that left you smiling, even through the tears.

Everybody Loves Raymond didn’t just make us laugh—it reminded us that, for all the chaos, family is worth the trouble. And for that, it’ll always have a special place in my heart.

Friday Night Lights

Friday Night Lights was never just a show about football. Sure, there were game-winning touchdowns, halftime pep talks, and enough slow-motion shots of players running onto the field to make you feel like you’d lived through a Texas high school football season. But at its core, Friday Night Lights was about so much more. It was about community, family, and how the pressures of small-town life can bring out both the best and worst in people.

Set in Dillon, Texas, the show captured the intensity of a town where football wasn’t just a sport—it was a way of life. But what made Friday Night Lights stand out was how it used that backdrop to explore the relationships and struggles of its characters. Coach Eric Taylor, with his quiet strength and moral compass, wasn’t just coaching his team to win games; he was guiding young men through some of the toughest years of their lives. And while his speeches often sounded like they belonged in a locker room, the lessons were meant for life off the field.

The show also gave us one of the best portrayals of marriage on TV with Eric and Tami Taylor—a couple who faced the ups and downs of life with grit, humor, and a deep respect for each other. Their relationship was the steady heartbeat of the show, a reminder that love, like football, takes work, patience, and the occasional sideline pep talk.

And while Friday Night Lights delivered some of the most intense game sequences on television, it was the quieter moments that really resonated. The conversations between a coach and his players, the struggles of a town weighed down by its own expectations, and the stories of teenagers figuring out who they are in the middle of all that pressure.

When the final whistle blew, Friday Night Lights left us with a lot more than football memories. It reminded us that, in the game of life, showing up for the people you care about is the greatest victory of all. Clear eyes, full hearts, can’t lose.

Game of Thrones

Some shows make you wonder why you spent weeks of your life watching them, but then there’s Game of Thrones, where you start to question whether your soul belongs to HBO.

From the moment those opening credits rolled, with that iconic theme song swelling like a promise of epic things to come, I was hooked. It wasn’t just a TV show; it was an event. Sunday nights weren’t for winding down—they were for getting swept away into a world where dragons soared, ice zombies lurked, and power plays left you breathless.

What made Game of Thrones unforgettable wasn’t just the dragons, the stunning landscapes, or the political backstabbing (though, let’s be real, all of those were excellent). It was the characters. The ones who felt like family, or at least the dysfunctional relatives you keep at arm’s length but secretly root for at every family reunion.

Jon Snow, with his brooding stares and perpetual moral dilemmas; Arya Stark, the pint-sized assassin who grew up right before our eyes; and of course, Tyrion Lannister, whose every witty remark felt like a personal gift from the screenwriters to me.

And yet, those are just the tip of the iceberg. The sheer volume of unforgettable characters is overwhelming: Daenerys, Brienne, Cersei, Jaime, Sansa, Bran, Varys, Jorah, Samwell, Melisandre, Davos, Theon, Gendry, Ygritte, Missandei, Tormund, Oberyn, Margaery, Gilly… Each name brings a flood of memories, moments, and emotions that made Game of Thrones an experience unlike any other.

Somewhere between Ned Stark’s unfortunate death and Jon Snow’s epic resurrection, it hit me—Game of Thrones wasn’t just a show; it was a full-blown obsession. I went from casual viewer to someone who cared—possibly more than I should have—about fictional medieval politics.

But that’s the magic of the show: it took me on a journey so immersive that, for a moment, dragons, ice zombies, and tyrannical monarchs felt like part of my daily life. Who needed the real world when Westeros was far more interesting?

Our Sunday nights became sacred. After wrangling the kids into bed (a feat no less harrowing than one of Daenerys’ battle strategies), we’d sit down and prepare our special Game of Thrones cocktail, affectionately dubbed “Mangria.” It wasn’t fancy—just wine mixed with something strong enough to get us through the rollercoaster of emotions the show threw at us—but it was ours. We’d toast to whatever chaos awaited us that night and settle in, knowing we were about to be swept away by a world where dragons and deceit ruled the day.

Even now, when someone mentions the show, I can’t help but smile. When I think of Jon Snow walking into the cold wilderness, Arya setting sail into the unknown, or Tyrion reflecting on the absolute mess of it all, they’re not just characters to me; they’re companions on a journey I’ll never forget.

Late Night with Conan O’Brien

If ever there was a show that thrived on the absurd, it was Late Night with Conan O’Brien. From the moment Conan awkwardly danced his way onto our screens, it was clear we weren’t in for your average late-night fare. This was a man who embraced the weird, the unexpected, and the utterly ridiculous with open arms and a self-deprecating smile that let you know he was in on the joke—even if the joke was him.

The show came at the perfect time for me as a teenage boy. It spoke directly to my love of silliness, absurd humor, and the kind of comedy that didn’t care if it made sense. Conan didn’t just host a talk show; he hosted an ongoing experiment in chaos, and I was all in. Whether he was staring blankly at a camera for an uncomfortably long time or bringing on guests like Triumph the Insult Comic Dog (because why wouldn’t a foul-mouthed puppet become a late-night staple?), there was a sense of freedom in Late Night that other shows never quite captured. You never knew what was coming next, and that unpredictability was half the fun.

But for all the wacky bits, the over-the-top sketches, and the recurring characters like the Masturbating Bear (a sentence I never thought I’d type), Conan’s genius lay in his ability to connect. He made you feel like you were in on the absurdity with him, not just watching from a distance. And beyond the humor, what made Conan so special was his kindness. Beneath all the silliness, there was a genuine warmth to him—a sense that, no matter how ridiculous things got, he was a good guy just trying to make people laugh.

What made Late Night with Conan O’Brien unforgettable was its willingness to take risks, embrace failure, and turn even the most awkward moment into a running gag. It wasn’t polished or predictable, and that’s exactly what made it magic. For anyone who stayed up too late to watch Conan riff on nothing for five minutes straight, it was clear that Late Night wasn’t just a show—it was a glorious mess of comedy, and we were all better for it.

Parks and Recreation

Parks and Recreation was the show that taught us, against all logic and odds, that small-town government could be… heartwarming. What started as a quirky series about local bureaucracy somehow evolved into a love letter to optimism and the unwavering belief that caring too much might just save the world.

At its center was Leslie Knope—a tornado of enthusiasm, waffles, and binders. Leslie wasn’t just running the Parks Department; she was running a campaign to remind the rest of us that maybe, just maybe, hope isn’t as silly as it sounds.

Leslie’s relentless drive to turn Pawnee into the best small town in America was both absurd and beautiful. But Parks and Rec wasn’t just her story. It was a loveable circus of oddballs—Tom Haverford, who was probably launching five businesses before lunch; April Ludgate, the human embodiment of sarcasm; and Andy Dwyer, who somehow managed to be both clueless and brilliant, often in the same breath. And let’s not forget Ron Swanson, who made it clear that all you need in life is bacon, woodworking, and as little interaction with other humans as possible. Together, they made Pawnee a place that felt like home, even if the inhabitants had some, uh, unique concerns.

What made Parks and Rec stand out was its ability to balance the ridiculous with the deeply sentimental. It was a show that could have you laughing at a town hall meeting gone horribly wrong one minute, and then hit you with a moment of genuine friendship the next.

And for all its eccentricity, at the heart of it was a message that caring—about people, about your work, about your community—might be the bravest thing you can do. Leslie’s friendship with Ann, Ron’s gruff but loving mentorship, and even Jerry’s eternally optimistic outlook reminded us that relationships, as bizarre as they sometimes are, make everything worthwhile.

And when it came time to say goodbye, Parks and Rec delivered a finale that was as thoughtful and joyful as the show itself. It didn’t need any big twists or dramatic exits—just a series of heartfelt goodbyes that left you feeling like everything, for once, was exactly as it should be.

Scrubs

Scrubs was the medical show that didn’t take itself too seriously—until it did, and that’s when it hit you right in the feels. On the surface, it was all quick-witted banter, absurd daydream sequences, and Dr. Cox’s never-ending supply of sarcastic takedowns. But beneath all the humor, Scrubs had this uncanny ability to flip the switch and deliver gut-wrenching moments of truth about life, death, and the everyday messiness of being human.

The genius of Scrubs was in how it walked that tightrope between hilarity and heart. One minute, JD and Turk were engaging in a goofy, borderline ridiculous bromance, and the next, you’d be grappling with the emotional fallout of losing a patient or questioning the meaning of it all. The show captured what it meant to work in a hospital, not just through the drama of saving lives but through the smaller, quieter moments of connection and struggle. It didn’t glamorize the job—it humanized it.

And the cast? A perfect ensemble. Whether it was JD’s endless internal monologues, Elliot’s neurotic brilliance, or Carla’s no-nonsense wisdom, every character brought something real to the table. Even (perhaps especially) Dr. Cox, with his gruff exterior, was more complex and vulnerable than anyone wanted to admit—least of all himself.

Scrubs didn’t just give us laughs; it gave us life lessons wrapped in absurdity. It reminded us that no matter how chaotic, heartbreaking, or confusing life gets, there’s always room for humor. And, if nothing else, it taught us that having a best friend who gets you is one of the greatest joys in life—even if you occasionally break out into an air band.

The Wonder Years

Some shows aren’t just entertainment—they sneak in, stitch themselves into the very fabric of your life, until one day you realize you’re basically living with them like an old roommate.

For me, that show is The Wonder Years. It arrived at the perfect moment, as I was growing up, just like Kevin Arnold. The world he was trying to make sense of felt like the same one I was navigating, and every episode was like holding up a mirror to my own life. The awkward moments, the unspoken crushes, the confusion of trying to find my place in the world—it was as though Kevin and I were walking the same path, side by side.

Kevin wasn’t just a character; he was a part of me. When he laughed, I laughed. When he cried, I cried. And when he struggled with identity, I was right there, fumbling through the same identity crisis…minus the TV narrator.

His friendships, especially with Paul and Winnie, mirrored my own in such a personal way. Those early friendships, flawed but formative, shaped who I was becoming, and every time I watched them on screen, it felt like the show was holding up a window to my own experiences.

And though my family wasn’t the Arnolds, The Wonder Years still resonated deeply with me. Kevin’s family dinners, those slightly awkward heart-to-hearts with his parents, the way life moved both too fast and painfully slow—it all mirrored the chaos of my own adolescence.

The show didn’t need to reflect my exact reality; it captured something about how I saw the world. It made me reflect on those little moments in my own life that mattered more than I realized at the time.

To this day, I can’t think of another show that means as much to me as The Wonder Years. It wasn’t just television—it was essential. It captured the bittersweet beauty of growing up—the joy, the heartbreak, the confusion, and the wonder of it all. As Kevin’s older self-narrated his childhood from a place of reflection, I found myself reflecting, too.

Those moments—whether it was walking home from school or a fleeting look between him and Winnie—stayed with me, just like my own childhood memories do. It was a reminder that we never fully leave those moments behind; they become a part of who we are.

Even now, thinking about the show stirs something in me.

I remember watching it with my parents, with friends—each of us swept up in its world. We laughed, we cried, and somehow, it felt like the show understood us better than we understood ourselves. To this day, no show has resonated with me quite like The Wonder Years. It didn’t just help me see the world differently—it taught me how to hold onto the past without letting it slip away.

It was a rare kind of story, the kind that sticks with you long after the credits roll.

Ted Lasso

Some shows leave you entertained, and others—like Ted Lasso—leave you transformed.

For me, Ted Lasso is a love story, not just about a football team, but about humanity itself. I don’t use the word “love” lightly when it comes to television, but there’s no other word that captures how deeply I connected with this show.

From the first episode, I found myself rooting for every character—not just Ted, but each flawed, wonderful person trying to navigate life alongside him.

Ted’s optimism, the way he believes in his team even when the odds are stacked against him, speaks to something I’ve always aspired to in my own life. He’s the kind of leader who knows that the real magic doesn’t come from winning games—it comes from believing in people, even when they don’t believe in themselves. And that’s not just a leadership philosophy; it’s a way of living that resonates deeply with me.

A coworker once called me the Ted Lasso of our team, and I’ll be honest—it might be the nicest thing anyone has ever said about me, which is either touching or an indictment of my life choices. I haven’t decided yet. But Ted’s relentless optimism, his knack for spotting the best in people, and that quiet vulnerability of his? Those aren’t just qualities that make him a brilliant coach. They’re exactly the traits I’ve tried to sneak into my own work.

To be compared to Ted is to be seen as someone who lifts others up, who believes in the power of teamwork, and who approaches life with a sense of humor and a wide-open heart. That comparison didn’t just flatter me; it reminded me of the type of person I want to be.

But Ted Lasso is so much more than just a feel-good show. It’s about struggle and vulnerability, about how the people who seem the strongest are often the ones who are hurting the most.

Ted’s journey is a masterclass in embracing vulnerability—not as a weakness, but as a strength. His willingness to admit when he’s lost, when he’s afraid, when he doesn’t have all the answers—that’s where the real beauty of the show lies. It’s in those moments that we, as viewers, feel seen. We see ourselves in Ted’s mistakes, in his pain, in his quiet hope that things will get better if he just keeps showing up.

The cast of characters around Ted only deepens my love for the show. Each one—whether it’s Rebecca’s struggle for redemption, Roy’s gruff exterior hiding a heart of gold, or Jamie Tartt’s journey from selfish striker to a team player—feels like a fully realized person with their own battles and triumphs.

And yet, no matter how different they are, they all come together as a team, not because they have to, but because Ted makes them believe in something bigger than themselves.

That’s the magic of Ted Lasso. It’s a show about football, sure, but more than that, it’s about love. Love for the game, love for the people you work with, and most importantly, love for yourself—flaws, mistakes, and all. Every time I watch it, I’m reminded of what it means to lead with kindness, to put people first, and to embrace the messy, wonderful humanity in everyone around me.

24

There was nothing quite like 24 when it hit the scene. Jack Bauer wasn’t just a man on a mission—he was a one-man force of nature, racing against the clock to save the day (and sometimes the world) in real-time, one intense hour at a time.

For my wife and me, 24 was a game-changer. We dove headfirst into the DVD box sets early in our marriage, completely swept up in the relentless pace of the show. This was before streaming services made binging a norm—24 introduced us to the joy of watching “just one more episode” until suddenly we were knee-deep in a marathon, sleep be damned.

And that’s the magic of 24. It was pure adrenaline, a rollercoaster of cliffhangers that made it impossible to stop watching. Jack Bauer, with his gravelly voice and steely resolve, faced more life-threatening situations in one day than most action heroes do in an entire career. The stakes were always high, the betrayals constant, and the ticking clock a cruel reminder that time was running out.

But 24 wasn’t just about the action—it was the first show that made me rethink how TV could be consumed. Binging 24 became an experience, a ritual of late-night viewings where we’d promise ourselves “just one more hour” until we had no choice but to sleep. And once we caught up to real-time airings, the agony of having to wait a full week between episodes was almost unbearable. But the payoff? Worth every second.

24 changed how we watched TV. It was the kind of show that you couldn’t help but talk about with friends and coworkers the next day, comparing notes on who might turn out to be the mole this time, or how Jack Bauer could possibly survive another hour. It was thrilling, addictive, and a reminder that, when the clock is ticking, anything can happen.

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My Television Hall of Fame

Good television has a way of sneaking up on you. Some shows weave themselves into the fabric of your heart, making you cry over characters who don’t exist, while others simply make you laugh until you feel a little better about what might have you down. And then there are those that arrive at just the right moment—so perfectly timed that you’re convinced the writers somehow knew exactly what you needed.

This list? It’s a collection of all those moments. Some made me think, others made me laugh, but every single one is here because, for one reason or another, it’s unforgettable.