I started watching this show purely as background noise—something to fill the silence while I worked, ate, or contemplated why my to-do list never gets shorter. It wasn’t supposed to matter. But then it turned out to be one of the funniest, comforting, heartwarming sitcoms I’ve seen in a while. Fast forward to me, three rewatches later, still quoting it five years after it ended finding ways to bring it up in every conversation.
The show has a certain… chaos. It matches the Roses’ collective “what should we do now?” energy perfectly. After a business manager’s little tax oversight, the once fabulously wealthy Rose family loses everything. The only thing the IRS lets them keep? A tiny town Johnny once bought as a gag gift for his son in 1991. (Honestly, the fact that this joke becomes their saving grace is poetic.). So, naturally, the family packs up their designer luggage and moves into their one remaining asset – a town the IRS deemed bad investments.
And so, the once-glamorous Rose family finds themselves checking into the Schitt’s Creek Motel, graciously arranged by the town’s mayor, Roland Schitt. Picture outdated wallpaper, flickering lights, leaky ceiling and complete lack of privacy an ambiance best described as hospitably tragic. As the Roses awkwardly but graciously adjust to their new lives, we see every shade of denial, delusion, community, and begrudging growth.
Johnny, ever the eternal optimist, tries to rebuild from scratch, turning corporate pep talks into survival strategies. Moira, meanwhile, floats through every scene in designer black and a subtly deranged wig, mourning her lost fame but somehow makes melodrama deeply endearing. True to form, she says things like “you are blind to reality and for that, I am most proud,” and makes it feels profound.
David is my spirit animal—equal parts sarcastic, stylish, and allergic to sincerity. He once declared he is “very uninterested in doing things that involve physical contact or genuine emotion,” which only makes his eventual emotional maturity (and actual relationship with Patrick) all the more beautiful.
And Alexis? The woman who used to drop names like “Prince Harry” in casual stories about being held hostage in a foreign country somehow becomes the most grounded of them all. Her breezy “Ew, David!” energy shifts into confidence, professionalism, and self-worth—without losing the sparkle that made her endearing and charming in the first place.
Supporting characters like Stevie, Roland, and Ted keep the Roses tethered to something resembling reality, each offering them small, sincere lessons disguised as awkward moments. Jocelyn, Twyla, and Ronnie add a wonderful dose of small-town goodness (and occasional chaos), reminding the family what unconditional support and humility actually feel like.
The first season can feel a little slow, like the first day at a new school everyone’s trying to figure out their groups. But stick around. Once the characters settle into this new home, the whole thing finds a gorgeous rhythm of chaos, vulnerability, wild risks, and real growth that sneaks up on you in the best way. By the end, what started as background noise turned into a show that made me laugh and cry. It’s strange, isn’t it? You start watching something to kill time—and then it quietly ends up teaching you how to start over, love people better, and maybe even fold in the cheese. A masterclass in finding joy where you least expect it.
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