There comes a point in everyone's life when they must confront an uncomfortable truth…
At some stage, they will become emotionally invested in a television show they have absolutely no business caring this much about.
For some it was Grey's Anatomy.
For others, Bridgerton.
For me, apparently, it's Off Campus.
Yes, the cast is objectively attractive. Yes, there are enough moments of romantic tension to make you forget your own responsibilities for an hour. And yes, I may have already watched the first season twice.
But as I wrapped up my second viewing, it wasn't the romance that stuck with me.
Which, frankly, surprised nobody more than me.
Beneath all the romance, hockey games and dramatic eye contact, Off Campus may have quietly achieved something that television has struggled with for decades. It challenges one of the most persistent stereotypes we've been feeding young people for decades: the idea that athletes and artists belong in entirely different worlds.
If you haven't watched it yet, consider this your gentle warning. There are no major spoilers ahead, but I also don't want to rob anyone of that first-watch experience.
The story is set at the fictional Briar University and follows two central characters. Garrett Graham is a hockey player trying to carve out his own identity beyond the shadow of his professional athlete father. Hannah Wells is a music student working to maintain her scholarship and pursue her career.
Alongside them sits an equally important cast of characters. Hannah's best friend Allie is a theatre major chasing her first big break, Justin Kohl, the brooding band-front-man and the starting line for the Briar Hawks have their own ambitions, relationships and storylines that matter just as much.
The best thing - the parallel storylines of young-people chasing after the things that they love. No one passion is elevated higher above another.
And somehow that felt strangely revolutionary.
Which is ridiculous when you think about it.
The hockey players show up for theatre performances.
The theatre kids care about the hockey games.
People support each other's ambitions without needing to rank them.
Nobody has to justify why their passion matters.
Nobody treats someone else's dream as a cute little hobby while the "real" work happens elsewhere.
Which sounds like a very strange thing to notice in a romantic drama, until you realise how rarely we actually see it.
For years, television has relied on the same formula. The athletes sit over here. The creatives sit over there. One group gets status, the other gets character development. One group wins championships, the other writes songs about their feelings.
I'm exaggerating, but only slightly.
We've become so accustomed to the "jocks versus arts kids" narrative that it barely registers anymore. It's simply accepted as the natural order of things.
Off Campus presents a version of the world where people are allowed to pursue their passions without attaching social value to them. A world where excellence in sport and excellence in the arts sit comfortably alongside one another. A world where nobody feels the need to apologise for caring deeply about something that others might not understand.
Admittedly, it all feels a little utopian at times.
But maybe that's because we've spent so long reinforcing the opposite message.
For decades, popular culture has subtly taught young people that certain talents are more worthy of admiration than others. Sport often sits at the top of the hierarchy, while creative pursuits fight for legitimacy underneath it. Not always intentionally. Not always explicitly. But consistently enough that many people internalise it. There are still schools, communities and even families that unconsciously reinforce those messages.
As someone who spends every day working to ensure young people have access to arts education, I see the impact of these narratives more often than I'd like. Children don't arrive at school believing that sport is somehow more valuable than music, drama or dance. They learn it. Through the adults around them, through the systems we build and through the stories they consume. That's why representation matters.
Not because a television show can solve a cultural problem, but because it can quietly challenge one. When young people see everyone pursuing their passions without apology, it expands their understanding of what's possible.
And honestly, isn't that the point?
The world gets a lot more interesting when we stop deciding which passions deserve the spotlight and simply let people love what they love.