TW: This writing mentions experiences with suicidal thoughts. If you need support reach out to 988 or consult my resource list.

Mental illness has been part of my life for almost as long as I can remember. To be real, there were full decades when I stared into the abyss and planned my suicide.

Yet in that sadness, there was always this comforting little thing called Star Wars, something that (as I’ve said many times) kept me alive. I mean that literally.

Somehow, it always cut through the noise in my head. In that galaxy far, far away, with the Rebellion, the Jedi, the Force, even the friendly droids—I found connection. There were moments when the only reason I stayed alive was because I needed to see the next Star Wars movie. And then the next show. And then the next…

That was my sliver of hope. Rebellions are built on hope.

My mental health is better now. But Star Wars will always be part of my story. It’s one of the lights I’ll follow if darkness returns.

All of that brings me to what I’m really here to say: I have never been as moved by anything in the Star Wars universe, or really in any tv, as I have been by Andor. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything like it, and I’m not sure I ever will again.

This show was made with extraordinary care, persistence, and love. It cracked me open in ways I didn’t expect. Full weep sessions. Episodes and monologues on repeat. It feels like a mirror held up to our world, that is often terrifying and unjust. It shows us realities we recognize but often can’t name.

It’s about planting trees you’ll never see grow. It asks you to resist, not just grand evil, but the quiet banality of it too. It’s about the cost of apathy and the slow rise of courage. It’s about flawed, broken people who keep showing up. It’s shades of white, brown, orange, blue, black. High tight collars. Utilitarian garments. Flowing robes. And honestly, I can’t explain it any better than that. It just is.

Andor doesn’t offer comfort. It offers truth. But somehow, that truth is comforting—because it sees us.

I think that’s why it matters so much to me, not just as a fan, but as someone who’s clawed their way back from the edge. The rebellion doesn’t always look very impressive. Sometimes it’s staying. Speaking up. Getting it wrong. Believing, somehow, that I’ve got friends everywhere. Helping someone else hold on, even when your own grip is slipping.

This show is a message: that our lives matter, even when the system—or our own minds—says they don’t. That no one is too broken to make a difference. That the act of surviving is, itself, rebellious.

It tells us the dark and horrifying things in the world are real. That anyone, including you, can be part of the problem or part of the solution. And that the hardest, most human task can be figuring out who and what shaped you, and where you stand now.

Stories like Andor remind us that surviving isn’t something we do only for ourselves. It echoes. The quietest acts of holding on matter, even if no one sees them. And sometimes, a story full of pain helps someone find the words for their own.

Star Wars didn’t just help me stay alive. It helped shape who I’ve become. And somehow, Andor feels like it’s saying, “I see you. I’m both a witness and a mirror to how you got here.”

And I love it for that, through my tears.

lf you also enjoy Star Wars you may also like to read my other writings about it, located here, here. and here!

Images via https://www.starwars.com/first-look-gallery-andor-season-2