I don't actually watch that much TV, but I was obsessed with

When Anya Taylor-Joy said, “I don’t actually watch that much TV, but I was obsessed with ‘Dawson’s Creek’ growing up. And ‘Freaks and Geeks.’ And ‘8 Simple Rules for Dating My Teenage Daughter,’” she was not merely recalling the shows of her youth — she was speaking to the power of story, of how fiction can shape the heart of the dreamer and mirror the evolution of the soul. Beneath her casual tone lies a deep truth: that the stories we love in our youth are not mere entertainment, but mirrors of longing, windows into the self we have not yet become. What she expresses is the quiet reverence for those tales that once guided her through the labyrinth of adolescence, the sacred intimacy between the young heart and the art that first makes it feel seen.

The origin of this reflection is rooted in Taylor-Joy’s formative years — a time when she, like so many others, turned to the screen to understand the strange and stormy nature of growing up. Shows like “Dawson’s Creek” and “Freaks and Geeks” were not simply television; they were modern epics of the ordinary, stories that captured the poetry of adolescence — the awkwardness, the yearning, the raw search for identity. These were tales of emotion unfiltered, where love was both discovery and disaster, where friendship was both anchor and mirror. For a young artist such as Anya, who would one day breathe life into complex characters herself, such stories offered not only comfort, but initiation — a gentle invitation into the world of empathy, imagination, and transformation.

To the ancients, this bond between art and youth was a sacred rite. In the temples of Greece, the young were taught through drama, where myths of gods and mortals reflected their own struggles and desires. The stage was a mirror of the human heart, just as television became a mirror of the modern one. The characters of “Dawson’s Creek” or “Freaks and Geeks” are the modern equivalents of Phaedra, Achilles, or Antigone — mortals caught between passion and restraint, love and loss, self and society. In loving them, the young viewer does not merely escape reality — they learn how to feel. They discover that their confusion, their hope, their vulnerability are shared across generations, even if the form of the story changes.

Consider the tale of Alexander the Great, who, as a boy, kept under his pillow both a dagger and a copy of Homer’s Iliad. It was not the blade that shaped him into a conqueror of worlds, but the words — the stories of courage, friendship, and loss that kindled within him the fire of destiny. In much the same way, the stories of one’s youth — whether spoken by poets or played upon screens — become the invisible teachers of the heart. Taylor-Joy’s “obsession” is not a trivial one, but a remembrance of the narratives that shaped her soul’s vocabulary. Through them, she learned the music of emotion that would later echo through her performances.

Her admission also carries a subtle wisdom about the power of nostalgia. The ancients believed that memory is the keeper of meaning — that to look back is not to regress, but to recognize how far one has come. By recalling the shows of her childhood, Taylor-Joy reconnects with the spark of curiosity and wonder that led her to her art. In an age that rushes ever forward, where new distractions replace the old each day, there is virtue in remembering the stories that built us. For they remind us not only of who we were, but of what still moves us — the eternal hunger to understand, to love, to belong.

There is also humility in her confession. Though she has become a celebrated figure in cinema, she speaks not as a critic of culture but as a student of it. The ancients would have admired this humility, for they knew that even the greatest artist remains forever a disciple of beauty. By acknowledging her love for the simple, heartfelt shows of her youth, Taylor-Joy honors the continuity of art — that every performance, every story, stands upon the shoulders of those that came before. Her affection for these television tales reminds us that the seed of genius is often planted by the most unassuming storytellers.

The lesson in her words is this: never underestimate the stories that awaken you, no matter how small they may seem. What moves you in youth often contains the blueprint of your calling. Cherish the art that once made you feel alive, for it is the foundation of your empathy and imagination. Whether it is a poem, a song, or a television show, let it remind you that stories are the sacred bridge between solitude and understanding.

Thus, Anya Taylor-Joy’s quote is not just a nostalgic recollection — it is a hymn to the formative power of story. Like the myths of old, the tales of our childhood teach us how to dream, how to feel, and how to see ourselves in others. So remember, O listener: whatever stories once shaped your heart, do not discard them. Return to them, honor them, and let them remind you that the heart’s first teachers are not found in classrooms, but in the stories that first made you believe in the beauty of being human.