They Weren’t Just Characters—They Were Warnings, Mirrors, and Lessons
By Trinity Barnette
This isn’t just a list of my favorite TV characters. It’s a psychological study of the ones who stayed with me—the ones I felt in my chest, the ones I understood too well. Every person on this list comes from a show I’ve watched or rewatched more than once, because that’s how I connect. I don’t just watch TV—I attach.
Maybe it’s the psychology major in me. Or the survivor. Or the hyper-observant girl who learned to read people long before she understood herself. But when I watch TV, I’m not just following a story—I’m studying. Watching how characters evolve. What they suppress. What makes them break. What they cling to when everything falls apart.
Each of these characters mirrored something in me—whether it was ambition, grief, loneliness, rage, or the constant battle between control and collapse. Some of them are morally gray. Others are emotionally wrecked. All of them are brilliant in their own way.
1. Annalise Keating – How to Get Away With Murder
The storm. The shield. The brilliant mess in heels.
Annalise Keating is what happens when power and pain are forced to coexist. A high-profile criminal defense attorney and law professor, she commands every room she enters—until the weight of her past threatens to crush her. She’s brutal, brilliant, manipulative, loyal, destructive, and deeply, painfully human.
Why she’s on this list:
Because she’s not written to be likable—she’s written to be real. Annalise isn’t your standard “strong female lead.” She’s a woman who survived abuse, loss, addiction, betrayal, and systemic oppression—and still managed to outsmart the system that tried to bury her. Watching her wasn’t always comfortable, but it was honest.
What I saw in her:
The compartmentalization. The control. The self-sabotage masked as survival. She wasn’t just a character—I recognized her. The perfectionism. The panic underneath the performance. The inability to let people in and the devastation that followed when she finally did. I saw the cost of always needing to be strong.
The character study:
Annalise is the embodiment of duality. Her moral compass isn’t broken—it’s just complicated. She’ll bend the law for justice, but never let anyone call her soft. Her vulnerability is buried under layers of armor, but it leaks out in moments of terrifying honesty. She loved deeply. She failed often. She kept going.
What she taught me:
That power and pain can coexist. That you don’t have to be healed to be respected. That rage is sacred when it comes from survival. And that sometimes, the most powerful thing a woman can do is fall apart and still stand back up.
2. Olivia Benson – Law & Order: SVU
The protector. The survivor. The moral compass with bite.
Olivia Benson isn’t just a character. She’s a symbol—for survivors, for justice, and for the impossible balance of strength and softness. As the heart of SVU, she’s carried over two decades of trauma—hers and everyone else’s—and still shows up, day after day, with compassion and fire.
Why she’s on this list:
Because she’s everything the justice system claims to be but rarely is—empathetic, relentless, and principled. She listens to survivors without judgment. She believes them. And she fights, not because it’s her job, but because it’s personal. Her career has always been about protecting others the way no one protected her.
What I saw in her:
Restraint. Pain behind the eyes. The emotional labor of being the strong one. I recognized that quiet grief—the kind that doesn’t get processed because you’re too busy saving everyone else. She made me feel less alone in the weight of carrying other people’s trauma while still trying to hold onto your own humanity.
The character study:
Olivia is a paradox. She’s composed under pressure, but deeply emotional. She’ll break rules when justice demands it, but never loses her moral footing. She represents the ideal cop in a deeply flawed system—one that doesn’t really exist, which is part of what makes her so compelling. She’s what we wish real-world accountability looked like.
What she taught me:
That strength doesn’t always roar. Sometimes it’s quiet. Sometimes it cries in the car. But it still gets up and does the work. Olivia taught me that survival can be dignified, that softness isn’t weakness, and that justice, when it’s rooted in empathy, is revolutionary.
3. Blair Waldorf – Gossip Girl
The queen bee. The tactician. The girl who refused to be small.
Blair Waldorf wasn’t just a rich girl in headbands—she was a strategist, a romantic, and a control freak trying to protect a deeply bruised heart. Underneath the snark and schemes was a girl who wanted love, legacy, and to be seen as more than just beautiful or rich—she wanted to be remembered.
Why she’s on this list:
Because she showed me that ambition doesn’t have to be masculine. That femininity can be weaponized with precision. And that being “too much” was never a flaw—it was power, wrapped in tulle and manipulation. Blair wasn’t perfect, but she never pretended to be. And I loved her more for it.
What I saw in her:
The obsession with perfection. The desire to be chosen. The sharp tongue that masked deep insecurities. Blair was mean, but never for sport—she was calculated, competitive, and constantly trying to earn worth in a world that only valued appearance and status. I saw the girl who tried to control chaos with checklists and charm.
The character study:
Blair is what happens when ambition collides with heartbreak. Her manipulation wasn’t mindless—it was armor. She wanted to win, but more than that, she wanted to matter. She thrived on power plays and romantic fantasies at the same time. She was emotionally intelligent but emotionally reckless. That duality made her unforgettable.
What she taught me:
That you can be both ruthless and romantic. That you can crave love and still demand respect. That being the “it girl” doesn’t mean you don’t bleed. Blair taught me how to move through the world unapologetically—even if it meant being misunderstood.
The fixer. The icon. The woman who saved the world while losing pieces of herself.
Olivia Pope wasn’t just powerful—she was power. D.C.’s most elite crisis manager, she was always three moves ahead, solving problems no one else could. But underneath her immaculate wardrobe and composed facade was a woman constantly torn between morality, loyalty, and self-preservation. She lived in the grey—and she ruled it.
Why she’s on this list:
Because she taught me that power is complicated. That being “the strong one” often means suffering silently. Olivia didn’t just carry other people’s chaos—she cleaned it up, took the fall, and smiled through it. I saw myself in her ability to lead with precision while privately unraveling. And I admired how she never stopped showing up.
What I saw in her:
A woman who knew exactly what she was doing—but hated herself for doing it. Someone who craved control because she’d known what it felt like to have none. Her trauma was tightly packed behind lip gloss and policy, but it leaked through in moments of brutal honesty. I saw the burden of being the one who fixes everything—but can’t fix herself.
The character study:
Olivia is the personification of moral conflict. She manipulates, protects, destroys, and sacrifices. She can end presidencies and rewrite narratives with a phone call, but the second it comes to her own feelings, she collapses. She’s strategic and soft. She’s ambitious and ashamed. She’s a masterclass in contradiction—and that’s what makes her real.
What she taught me:
That control is sometimes a survival mechanism. That you can lead an empire and still long for something soft. That love doesn’t always arrive clean, and sometimes the power you fight for ends up costing you more than you imagined. Olivia Pope taught me that strength and loneliness often live side by side—and that being “handled” is never the same as being held.
The negotiator. The human calculator. The man who stayed calm while the world burned.
Marty Byrde isn’t your typical criminal. He’s a financial genius with the emotional affect of a therapist and the survival instincts of a shark. Caught between drug cartels, the FBI, and his unraveling family, he launders money, manipulates billionaires, and outmaneuvers killers with little more than Excel spreadsheets and a disturbingly steady tone.
Why he’s on this list:
Because I’m drawn to people who compartmentalize to survive. Marty doesn’t scream. He doesn’t panic. He processes. And while he’s not good, he’s smart—and in his world, that’s what matters. He doesn’t need people to like him. He just needs them to underestimate him. And they always do.
What I saw in him:
Control. Emotional distance. The ability to dissociate in crisis and turn pain into problem-solving. Marty’s not heartless—he’s just exhausted. He doesn’t rage, he recalculates. And I get that. He’s the embodiment of what it means to survive by staying two steps ahead while pretending everything’s fine.
The character study:
Marty is a man ruled by logic—but haunted by consequences. He’s a case study in how far someone will go to maintain the illusion of stability. His moral compass broke somewhere between Season 1 and the Mexican border, but the terrifying part? You never see the fracture. He never flinches. Even when everything around him burns, he’s thinking about taxes.
What he taught me:
That emotional detachment is its own form of trauma. That not panicking isn’t the same as being okay. And that being “the calm one” doesn’t mean you’re not drowning—it just means you learned how to hold your breath longer than most.
The killer with a code. The man with a mask. The monster who chose morals.
Dexter Morgan is a serial killer—but he’s also a meticulous scientist, a brother, a father, and the most emotionally numb man you’ll ever root for. He doesn’t kill for chaos—he kills by principle. He calls it his Dark Passenger, and he’s learned to live with it by turning murder into justice. He’s not just fascinating—he’s terrifyingly relatable in the quietest ways.
Why he’s on this list:
Because control is his survival. Because he made his darkness useful. Because, like so many people who’ve experienced deep trauma, he created a system for existing. A structure. A set of rules that made him feel like less of a monster and more like a man. That hit home.
What I saw in him:
Someone who doesn’t feel “normally,” but still tries to connect. Someone who masks emptiness with ritual. Dexter was never the loudest person in the room—he was the observer, the strategist, the man thinking five steps ahead just to stay in control. I saw the loneliness. The routine. The constant question of am I good, or just pretending to be?
The character study:
Dexter is what happens when a trauma response becomes a lifestyle. His “code” was given to him by his adoptive father—his moral programming. He doesn’t choose violence out of impulse, but out of necessity. And even in his most chilling moments, he’s not fully detached. He tries to be “normal.” He builds a family. He feels…something. Even if it’s different.
What he taught me:
That sometimes, we build systems to manage the parts of us we don’t fully understand. That routine can be protection. And that morality isn’t always clean—it’s often chosen, practiced, and self-imposed. Dexter taught me that silence doesn’t mean peace. And that sometimes, the scariest part of healing is not knowing who you are without your darkness.
The fallen son. The addict in a suit. The boy who begged to be enough.
Kendall Roy is a case study in contradiction. The would-be king of Waystar Royco, he’s powerful but broken, manipulative but self-aware, arrogant but deeply insecure. He wants to be seen as a leader, but he’s haunted by the fact that he’s still just a neglected child playing dress-up in his father’s empire. Kendall doesn’t just want success—he wants to be loved for it.
Why he’s on this list:
Because no other character has ever captured the psychological whiplash of trauma, validation addiction, and generational neglect like Kendall. He’s the definition of “not okay”—and trying anyway. He’s spiraling, self-sabotaging, apologizing, and performing, all at once. And I’ve never seen a breakdown feel so familiar.
What I saw in him:
The pressure to perform. The constant need to prove you’re better than what broke you. Kendall is both self-important and self-loathing. He’s a man who knows what’s wrong but can’t stop chasing the very thing that’s killing him. I saw the desperation. The need to win his father’s love. The grief of knowing he never will.
The character study:
Kendall is the emotional core of Succession—a Shakespearean prince in a corporate hellscape. His addiction isn’t just to drugs—it’s to being chosen. He flips between savior and saboteur, often in the same sentence. His trauma isn’t hidden, it’s broadcasted in every press conference, every pitch, every desperate hug. He is power with no peace.
What he taught me:
That unhealed childhood wounds don’t disappear with money, success, or image. That validation can’t replace love. And that sometimes, we break ourselves trying to earn affection from the very people who taught us we weren’t enough. Kendall taught me that looking put together means nothing when you’re unraveling inside—and that pain doesn’t need to be loud to be devastating.
8. Sheldon Cooper – The Big Bang Theory
The intellect. The routine. The misunderstood boy in a man’s body.
Sheldon Cooper is often labeled the comic relief—but behind the socially awkward genius is a child who craved predictability, safety, and logic in a world that gave him chaos. He’s brilliant, rigid, emotionally detached—and, beneath the surface, deeply vulnerable. He didn’t just build systems around himself—he became the system.
Why he’s on this list:
Because I’ve always related to people who need structure to survive. Sheldon is less about comedy and more about survival through control. He builds routines, contracts, rituals, and rules—not to be annoying, but to feel safe. And as someone who’s had to create my own order in the face of trauma, I get it.
What I saw in him:
The fear of change. The need to intellectualize feelings. The difficulty understanding people, even when you care deeply. Sheldon wasn’t cold—he was cautious. I saw the overstimulation. The craving for solitude. The belief that being right was a form of protection. His quirks weren’t just funny—they were familiar.
The character study:
Sheldon is an autistic-coded, logic-driven character in a show full of emotion and chaos. His discomfort with affection, his obsessive need for control, and his struggle to read emotional cues all point to a deeper inner world. What makes him remarkable is how slowly—and imperfectly—he learns to grow. He doesn’t become a new person. He becomes more himself, with layers.
What he taught me:
That intelligence doesn’t replace connection—but it can coexist with it. That boundaries don’t make you cold—they make you clear. And that being different isn’t something to fix—it’s something to understand. Sheldon reminded me that softness can look like sticking to your rules when the world doesn’t respect them.
9. Jay Gatsby – The Great Gatsby
The dreamer. The self-made myth. The man who mistook love for salvation.
Jay Gatsby isn’t a TV character, but he might as well be—because no fictional man has ever captured the tragedy of longing the way he does. A poor boy turned wealthy mystery, Gatsby reinvented himself entirely for love, for status, for a version of life he was never allowed to have. And he died chasing it.
Why he’s on this list:
Because I understand the obsession with becoming someone. The belief that if you work hard enough, look perfect enough, earn enough—you’ll finally be worthy of love. Gatsby’s downfall wasn’t recklessness—it was hope. And I’ve felt that kind of hope before. The kind that blinds you.
What I saw in him:
The performative confidence. The curated identity. The fixation on being chosen by someone who never saw your worth to begin with. Gatsby wasn’t just chasing Daisy—he was chasing the fantasy of being good enough. I saw the exhaustion of trying to be everything and the loneliness of realizing it still wasn’t enough.
The character study:
Gatsby is the personification of delusion—but also devotion. His entire life was a performance. Every suit, every party, every “old sport” was a mask to cover the insecure boy underneath. He wasn’t driven by ego—he was driven by love, obsession, and the belief that the past could be rewritten. His greatest flaw wasn’t his lies—it was his refusal to let go.
What he taught me:
That sometimes, the American Dream is a weapon disguised as a promise. That reinvention can’t erase the pain that built you. And that no matter how much you shine, you can’t make someone love you the way you need to be loved. Gatsby taught me that fantasy is beautiful—but trying to live inside one will destroy you.
These nine characters weren’t just entertainment—they were extensions of me. They were the personalities I studied, the emotions I recognized, and the flaws I forgave because I saw my own. Each one offered something different: a warning about who I could become, a mirror of who I already was, or a lesson I didn’t know I needed.
They showed me that power and pain can coexist. That perfection is usually a mask. That the loudest people often feel the most invisible. And that survival, in any form, leaves behind stories worth telling—even if they’re fictional.
So no, they weren’t just characters.
They were pieces of my psychology. Pieces of my history.
And in some ways, pieces of my healing.
