This Was Supposed To Be A Review of ‘Forever,’ But It’s Not
My sincerest apologies to Keisha and Justin. I tried, I really did.
If you came here looking for a full, spoiler-filled review of Netflix’s “Forever,: I regret to inform you that you’re going to be disappointed. Not because I didn’t plan on reviewing it. I did. Not because I wasn’t excited about the father-daughter bonding opportunity that binge-watching a coming-of-age love story might bring. I was. But because somewhere around episode four, what began as a simple Netflix co-watch with my 13-year-old daughter slowly, almost imperceptibly, transformed into something entirely different: a deeply personal emotional audit of where she is, where I’ve been, and how far apart those things truly are.
We started strong. Snacks. The big maroon blanket. Sarcastic commentary locked and loaded. We were set to take in the hit show “Forever,” the streaming love story based on the Judy Blume novel and adapted with a Black-centered cast that had all the right elements: teen angst, emotional nuance, and just enough plot movement to keep both generations engaged. I figured I’d offer my fatherly wisdom between episodes, and she’d roll her eyes in mock annoyance before ultimately admitting that I had a point or two. You know, the usual rites of passage.
Instead, we made it three and a half episodes.
She tapped out. Abruptly.
At first, I was annoyed. I mean, we had a NewsOne assignment to finish. Tens of dollars were at stake. But then I realized: she didn’t bail because she’s flaky or can’t commit to a storyline. She left because “Forever” is a love story that asks a lot of its audience. It asks for emotional access, for lived experience, for empathy that extends beyond the black-and-white world of a 13-year-old. And that’s not a knock on her. It’s a reflection of where she is. She hasn’t lived enough heartbreak yet to feel the weight of the narrative. She doesn’t know what it means to mistake intensity for intimacy. She hasn’t learned how love can be both everything and nothing at the same time. She’s almost lucky in that sense.
Right about now, her emotional ceiling is Glee, and I’m okay with that.
But here’s the twist: I found “Forever” emotionally dense, too. Not because the story was inaccessible, but because it hit too close to home. Watching these characters fall into and out of love while grappling with identity, worthiness, and desire wasn’t entertainment; it was exposure. A mirror. One that I wasn’t entirely prepared to look into.
What was supposed to be a bonding moment turned into a reminder of the emotional canyon between us. She’s on the launch pad, filled with dreams, crushes, and a belief in the magic of it all. I’m mid-reentry, singed, and skeptical, trying to stitch together lessons from a failed marriage and the emotional debris it left behind. She looks forward. I assumed I was looking back. But what I realized, somewhere between episode three and existential dread, is that I’m actually staring into the murky now.
My emotions aren’t more refined because I’m older. They’re just heavier. More complex. But not necessarily more useful.
How do I teach her emotional resilience when I’m still relearning it myself?
I want to be the dad who helps her navigate the labyrinth of relationships. I want to be the one who gives good advice. The one who can help her bounce back from the text that never came, the crush who chose someone else, the love that never quite loved back. But how do you give what you don’t have in surplus? How do you model resilience when you’re quietly trying to recover from a story of your own that didn’t go as planned?
It’s a strange kind of grief, the one that comes with the end of a marriage. Not just the loss of the relationship, but the death of the blueprint. The sense that you did it the “right” way—the commitment, the sacrifice, the future-building—only to see it collapse. Trying to get back out there, emotionally, feels like asking your heart to sign a lease in a neighborhood it swore it would never live in again.
So instead of just teaching my daughter how to process her feelings, I’m also trying to remember how to trust mine.
And that’s the trap. That’s the part that “Forever” didn’t warn me about. The show wanted to be a love story. But our watch party turned into a cautionary tale. Not for her—but for me. Because as I watched Keisha and Justin — and their constellation of friends and family — parse out their complicated feelings through long pauses, tiny gestures, and beautifully lit glances, I remembered how vulnerable that place really is. I remembered what it meant to be all in. I remembered what it cost me.
Now here I am, supposed to be the adult in the room, grappling with the fact that I’m not sure I believe in the thing I’m supposed to be preparing her for. And maybe that’s the most honest parenting moment of all.
Because the truth is, she doesn’t need me to be a flawless romantic blueprint. She needs me to show up. To tell the truth. To let her see that emotions aren’t a straight line you master by 30. That resilience isn’t the absence of pain, but the commitment to keep feeling anyway.
We didn’t finish “Forever,” and maybe that’s fitting. Maybe that’s the point. That we’re still writing the script. Still learning the lines. Still trying to get the lighting right.
I want to protect her from heartbreak. But maybe the best I can do is help her build the muscles to recover from it. And to do that, I have to be willing to flex mine, even when they ache. Even when the last lift nearly broke me.
This wasn’t a review. This was a revelation.
And while I can’t promise we’ll pick up “Forever” again anytime soon, I can promise I’ll keep trying to bridge the emotional gap. One show, one conversation, one truth at a time.
That’s what forever really looks like.
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