In a pastel-hued, quintessentially ’80s living space, the charming couple of Lisa and Mark share an intimate moment on the bedroom floor, their romance interrupted by the adorable giggles of their baby, Mia. Shortly after I purchased Season One of Thirtysomething online and began watching it during my daily routine (only while organizing laundry, I promise!), I showed that opening scene to my partner. “This is how I envisioned marriage would be,” I said, accompanied by the soothing pan-flute theme music, and we both chuckled. Yet, there was indeed a moment in our lives when we were lost in a moment, and our first-born child crawled past us; I’m confident of that. Thanks to Thirtysomething (just the credits!), I also had precognitive insight into less idyllic scenarios: lunch with a sophisticated friend while my baby wailed, or the evening when my partner returned home to find no dinner prepared and a living room strewn with toys, while I tried not to cry.
The series debuted during my senior year of high school and continued through my first few college years. I didn’t catch every episode live, but my mother—an early recapper—would update me over the phone, and then I eagerly binge-watched reruns throughout summers. I found bits of myself in nearly every character, particularly in Melissa and Hope. I had hoped my life would follow a trajectory from Melissa’s cool urban lifestyle into Hope’s suburban motherhood, balancing work and family with grace.
At the heart of the show are Lisa and Mark, whose relationship represents the evolving dynamics of marriage in the ’80s. I remember being captivated by their ongoing negotiations over household and parenting responsibilities. I was mentally cataloging their strategies (I do the same during spy thrillers, in case I ever find myself in that role). I also noted their dedication to maintaining romance, though I couldn’t quite grasp why it was necessary.
At 18, I identified with Melissa—awkward, anxious, and overflowing with affection she was desperate to share. I feared I would become attached to a commitment-phobic character like Gary, who once gifted a clunker of a car to his ex-girlfriend who was pregnant. The scene that left the most profound impact on me during the show’s original run was at Ellyn’s wedding when Gary’s ghost reveals to Mark that Melissa and her partner, Jake, will marry and “have a wonderful child.” That might have hinted at my own most profound desires.
Back then, I paid little attention to Nancy and Elliot; their struggles felt mundane and awkward. Now, however, their journey often brings me to tears. My urban adventure was fleeting, and my creative aspirations remain unfulfilled. Like Nancy, I fell in love in college, married young, and became a mother to a son and a daughter. While my marriage hasn’t faced the same upheavals as theirs, I recognize the pressures that can strain a partnership. At one point, Nancy confides to Hope that she and Elliot have lost their connection. Elliot’s departure represents betrayal, yet their separation allows Nancy to rediscover her artistic identity—she publishes a children’s book—reclaiming herself as an individual and an artist.
When they reunite, they appreciate each other and the richness of their shared history. I often replay the moment when Nancy signals their reconciliation: Elliot is reassembling their stereo and mentions plans to buy a smaller one for his own place. “Just curious… why would you need two?” she asks playfully, and they begin to dance to Stevie Nicks’ “I Still Miss Someone.”
Nancy’s battle with cancer strikes a particularly harsh chord. I brushed over this storyline when I was younger. A fortunate adolescent, I had little personal experience with loss. Thankfully, both my parents are still living, and I haven’t lost friends to cancer. Yet, I spent a night in the hospital with my critically ill newborn, praying for every passing hour, while in my broader community, I witness the havoc cancer wreaks on lives and families.
The emotional weight of the series is compounded by Gary’s unexpected death. I recall my mother’s deep emotional response to that event; I was confused by her intensity back then, but now I understand. At 47, life’s tragedies become alarmingly tangible. In your forties, it feels like sorrow accelerates and multiplies. Sometimes, even fictional trauma feels overwhelmingly heavy.
What was once a glimpse into the future has transformed into reflective insight: a kind of rear-view mirror. I grasp that life and relationships have their ebbs and flows—that existence is delicate and can be fleeting. If we are wise, we will dance to the music more often. Perhaps I’ll even attempt a floor moment with my partner again, though our children, now grown, won’t crawl by if we do.
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In summary, revisiting Thirtysomething as a fortysomething parent highlights the evolution of relationships and the importance of cherishing moments amidst the challenges of life and parenting.