Two years ago today, I woke up in one of the nicest hotels I’d ever seen—white sheets, sun pouring through sheer curtains, the skyline of Los Angeles humming outside the window. The kind of morning that should have felt ordinary, but wasn’t. My chest was electric with anticipation. It was the day Lost ended.

Not just the show. An era. A world. A lifeline.

I’d come to LA alone, but I wasn’t alone. We were thousands, scattered across countries and time zones, drawn together by a plane crash and a smoke monster, sure—but more than that, by the strange, tender way that a story can make you feel seen when nothing else does.

We met online. Then in Hawaii. In Chicago. In tiny cafés and big theatres and conference rooms that didn’t know what hit them. We shared theories like gospel, rewound scenes like they held the answers to life, shouted across forums and Skype calls and Twitter threads long before those places got cynical. We screamed. We sobbed. We felt together.

I’ve told this story before. But no one really knows.

No one knows that Lost didn’t just change my life—it saved it. Not metaphorically. Not in the Hallmark way. I mean: I was done. I was dust. I had tried to die.

I’d dropped out of school. I’d dropped out of life. I was sleeping through daylight and staring through night, locked in a room that smelled like defeat. My body ached with nothing. I couldn’t cry anymore. Couldn’t move. I was a girl at the bottom of the ocean, unsure if up even existed.

Then one day, I remembered that a friend had told me about a show. I don’t know why I reached for it—maybe boredom, maybe instinct—but I typed Lost into Amazon and ordered Season 2. In English this time. No more bad dubbing. Just the real thing.

And slowly, breath by breath, I came back.

I found podcasts. Not just commentary, but voices that made me feel less alone. Cliff and Stephanie, bickering like they loved each other. Jay and Jack, sarcastic in the way that made me laugh out loud for the first time in weeks. Ryan and Jen, whose warmth made the world feel soft again.

I didn’t want to die while Lost was still airing.

And week by week, episode by episode, I wanted to live.

There’s no explaining that to someone who’s never needed a story to survive. But if you’ve ever clung to something fictional because the real world was too sharp, you know. You know.

Lost became my oxygen. The mystery, the music, the characters breaking and healing and failing and trying again. The community that held me without asking me to be more cheerful, or less broken. I started reaching out. Started writing emails. Making friends. Real ones. I’d been terrified of people for years—flinched when the phone rang—but here I was, laughing with strangers who somehow knew me better than anyone in my own house did.

They became my people. We still talk. Some of them are the reason I ever believed in love. Some are the reason I’m not dead.

That final night in the Orpheum Theatre, tears running down my face, Michael Emerson breathing the same air as me—God, I was alive. I was alive and surrounded and full of gratitude so big I could barely sit still. I don’t remember what I wore. I remember who I was. Someone who’d made it. Someone who had a then and a now.

Would I be here without Lost?

Would I be blogging, podcasting, running my own business, raising a son, dreaming like it’s not dangerous?

I don’t know.

I just know that when the world went dark, a story turned on the light. And the people who lived inside that story—fictional and real—stood in the doorway and said, You can come back.

So I did.

And if someone ever tells you that TV shows are just a waste of time, send them here.

Some stories don’t just entertain.

Some stories save lives.

Mine was one of them.
And its name was Lost.

I've moved. Find me at Ghosting the Bathtub →

X