Millennial nostalgia is everywhere right now. From fashion trends to television reboots which finds series like Scrubs returning to air, late ‘90s and early 2000s pop culture is being revived, reframed and consumed at a rapid pace. Yet somehow, amid all of the retrospective love, one show is often left out of the conversation: Felicity.

When the series premiered in 1998 on the WB, it wasn’t flashy or outrageous. Felicity didn’t feel designed for instant cultural dominance. It was quiet, introspective and way more interested in emotional shifts than dramatic twists. But for many of us, especially young women who came of age alongside its heroine, Felicity was deeply formative in ways that feel even more resonant now, at a time when many of us have found ourselves with nonlinear careers and often working in fields outside of our initial degrees. Revisiting the show today reveals not just a college coming of age drama, but a poignant series that touched on identity, creativity and the courage it takes to choose yourself.

Felicity wasn’t just a series about a young woman who followed a crush across the country to college. For many, the show served as an introduction to college life and to the friendships and bonds that form as one finds themselves thrust into young adulthood, picking majors and charting the path for the rest of our lives. It was as Felicity herself once said, “Sometimes it’s the smallest decisions that can change your life forever.”

For me, Felicity wasn’t just another teen drama. It was the first time I saw a lead character on television with hair like mine. Keri Russell’s curls weren’t a passing aesthetic choice or a makeover moment. They simply existed, free, textured and central to her presence on screen. At a time when straight hair dominated beauty standards, those curls quietly told a generation of girls that our natural selves didn’t need fixing. That kind of representation mattered. And it still does.

And while there is no denying Keri Russell’s natural beauty, Felicity Porter wasn’t a cool girl. She wasn’t sexy or particularly popular. She was awkward and nerdy, often dressed in oversized sweaters and constantly overthinking things and making mistakes as she navigated the complex waters of being a young adult on her own for the first time. Felicity wasn’t perfect and that was the point. Her imperfections made her feel real.

Beyond the curls and anxiety, Felicity stood apart because it told the truth about college. It wasn’t a glamorous experience. It was awkward, confusing, lonely, and emotionally charged in ways that felt real. While many shows of the era leaned into heightened drama or fantasy versions of young adulthood, Felicity lingered in uncertainty. It allowed its characters to sit with doubt. For many millennials, the series became a blueprint for understanding adulthood not as a destination, but as a process. What unfolds over four seasons is not a romance-driven fantasy, but a thoughtful exploration of identity, ambition and the uncertainty of becoming an adult.

Of course, Felicity is often reduced to its most debated plot point: a young woman following her high school crush to college. But that framing misses the heart of the story. The real narrative wasn’t about Ben (Scott Speedman). It was about choice. Felicity arrived at the University of New York with a carefully planned future, one that had included Stanford and medical school. Over time, she let that plan unravel. She discovered art. She embraced creativity. She chose a path that felt right, even when it wasn’t the most practical or expected one.

At a time when young women on television were often rewarded for certainty and sacrifice, Felicity was allowed to be unsure. She was allowed to change her mind. She was allowed to disappoint the expectations of her parents, her peers and even herself.

What makes the show compelling is that it never frames this shift as a failure. In fact, Felicity offers a quietly hopeful view of nonlinear growth. The series later implies that Felicity eventually circles back to medicine in graduate school, with Ben making the choice to follow her this time. Rather than presenting creativity and practicality as opposing forces, the show suggests they can coexist across different chapters of a life.

That message feels strikingly relevant today.

We’re currently living in a moment where creative careers are actively being discouraged, framed as risky or indulgent in an era dominated by economic instability and rapid technological change. The rise of AI has only intensified these anxieties, forcing artists and creative professionals to constantly justify the value of their work, as digital publishers like Business Insider slash 21% of their workforce to adopt an “AI First” approach. Passion is now expected to be profitable. Exploration is expected to be efficient. Reinvention is expected to be immediate.

Against this backdrop, Felicity feels almost radical in its gentleness.

The series reminds us that choosing an artistic path doesn’t have to be permanent to be meaningful. That it’s okay to spend time figuring out who you are, even if that time doesn’t lead directly to a fancy job title or a five year plan.

The show also captures something many millennials still grapple with: the tension between who we thought we would become and who we actually are. Felicity Porter begins her journey chasing certainty, but finds herself embracing ambiguity. Her growth mirrors the experience of countless young people who start down one path only to discover another calling waiting quietly to the side.

Perhaps this is why Felicity hasn’t received the same nostalgic reverence as other shows from its era. It doesn’t lend itself to iconic catchphrases or memeable moments. Its feminism is understated, rooted in lived experience rather than grand declarations. But that’s precisely why it deserves revisiting now.

The series reminds us that growth is nonlinear and that ambition can evolve. That creativity matters, even when it’s impractical. Sometimes, the bravest thing you can do is let go of the life you thought you were supposed to have.

More than twenty years later, Felicity Porter’s journey still resonates. In a world that demands certainty and speed, Felicity offers a gentler truth: becoming yourself takes time, and that time is never wasted.