The other day, flattened by a stomach virus, I did what any rational human would do: I curled up on the couch with Gatorade, saltines, and a show about trauma, deception, and redemption. Because apparently, The Great British Bake Off was too wholesome for my queasy insides. Instead, I hit play on Chloe.

Yes, Chloe. A streaming show that wades deep into murky waters: trauma, grief, and the strange compulsions we humans develop when the truth is too jagged to face head-on. And in between my naps and sips of gatorade, I binged the entire season. Because nothing says “rest and recover” like watching people live fake lives while I shuffle around in my sweatpants.

What struck me is how the show isn’t just about one person’s unraveling. It’s about all of us. Don’t we all, in some small way, play out curated, fake lives? We slap on Instagram filters, tell colleagues we’re “fine” when our insides are churning (sometimes literally), and post vacation photos that conveniently skip over the food poisoning part. We enable bad situations because it’s easier than disruption. We let things slide, hoping for redemption later.

But Chloe reminds us that living an unexamined, performative life can hollow you out. Trauma thrives in shadows. Secrets don’t stay buried, they ferment. And eventually, you end up asking yourself: Who am I in this story I’ve created? And is it even mine?

It’s strange, the choices we make when sick. Some people crave soup and comedies. I, apparently, crave existential dread wrapped in a British drama. Maybe my stomach wasn’t the only thing that needed purging. Maybe I needed the reminder that while we can all dabble in the fake, the real redemption only comes from confronting the raw, messy truth.

So yes, Chloe was my sick-day companion. Not exactly chicken soup for the soul, but a mirror held up to the fictions we live. And perhaps that’s more healing than I care to admit.