I think it’s time for a small confession.

I might have a problem.

Not the kind that requires an intervention — unless that intervention involves someone gently taking the remote out of my hand and suggesting I go outside. I’m talking about shows. Favorite shows. Comfort shows. The ones you tell yourself you’re just going to watch “one episode” of, knowing full well you’re lying to yourself and anyone else within earshot.

Is binge-watching a good thing or a bad thing? Honestly, I go back and forth.

On one hand, there is something almost sacred about settling into the couch, blanket just right, snacks within reach and disappearing into a story that pulls you completely out of your own head. For a little while, your brain stops running through lists. You’re not thinking about emails, deadlines, laundry or the strange noise your car made earlier that day. You’re somewhere else. Like “Alice in Wonderland,” you fell down that rabbit hole. Emotionally attached.

On the other hand… three episodes later it’s midnight, your neck hurts and you’re negotiating with yourself like a hostage situation.

OK, this is the last one. I need to go to bed. I have work in the morning.

Here’s the thing, though — if I’m being completely honest, binge-watching for me isn’t all that different from reading a really good book.

Now, let me be clear before the book lovers come for me: reading is better for you. It’s healthier. It works your brain in different ways. I know this. I believe this. I respect this.

But the experience? The emotional impact? Very similar.

Once you’re in, you’re in.

You stay up way too late because you have to know what happens next. You tell yourself you’ll stop after one more chapter — or episode — and suddenly it’s 2 a.m. You’re tired but wired, your brain refusing to disengage because the story has its hooks in you.

And then… it ends.

That’s when the sadness hits.

The quiet, slightly dramatic grief of knowing these characters will no longer be part of your daily world. No more checking in on them. No more wondering what they’re doing next. No more familiar voices waiting for you at the end of the day.

There’s a void.

You’re left thinking, Now what? You scroll aimlessly, hoping something, anything, will fill that space. Nothing looks good. Nothing feels right. Everything feels like a downgrade.

This is the withdrawal phase.

Because shows, like books, don’t just entertain us. They keep us company. They become routines. They mark time. They’re there when life feels heavy or boring or overwhelming. They give us a place to land when we don’t quite want to be in our own heads.

Is it bad that we can binge? Probably not. Is it bad if we use it as a way to avoid things we don’t want to face? Maybe.

But I also think there’s something deeply human about wanting to be swept up in a story. About needing escape. About letting your mind rest inside someone else’s narrative for a while.

The key, I think, is noticing the difference between enjoyment and numbing.

Between savoring a story and using it to drown out everything else. Because that “now what” feeling when it’s over? That’s not really about the show — or the book.

It’s about the pause.

The return to real life. The moment where you’re handed back your own thoughts and have to decide what comes next — another series, a novel, sleep, a conversation or just sitting quietly longer than you’d planned.

So yes, I’ll admit it. I love my shows. I’ll binge them unapologetically.

I’ll get attached. I’ll feel a little sad when they end. Just like I do when I close the last page of a really good book.

From me to you, if you’ve ever felt that strange emptiness when a story leaves your world, you’re not alone. It’s not a flaw. It’s proof that you let yourself feel something.

Now if anyone has any good recommendations for a show or a book, I’m officially taking them all.

Mother, author, entrepreneur and founder of Dandelion-Inc, Lisa Resnick wants to hear your story. Share memories with her by emailing lisa@dandelion-inc.com.