The Show Was Cringe, but This Was the Summer We All Turned Pretty

The show landed in 2022, and its range of support has only intensified since. Fans have turned their support into a full-blown ship war, reliving the Team Edward vs. Team Jacob battles of the Twilight era. From TikTok breaking down reasons Belly should be with one brother versus the other to recounting to family and friends the entire story of the series as if it's happening to someone you know, discourse (our favorite word) around this show has been inescapable. Social-media managers have leaned in, too, baiting football players and celebrities into declaring their allegiance—whether or not they’ve watched the show. The memes alone (“The Summer I Turned Delusional”) have blanketed TikTok and Twitter, ensuring that even non-viewers can’t escape Cousins Beach.

But if you’re wondering how such an unabashedly awkward show—complete with Conrad’s wince-inducing singing, Jeremiah’s clunky dancing, and that now-infamous ring reveal— turned into a cultural juggernaut (the season three premiere drew 25 million viewers), the answer might be in the cringe.

“Things that people think are really, really good—they don’t engage their imaginations with it the same way,”  says Francesca Coppa, professor of English and Film Studies at Muhlenberg College. “There’s a way in which when something is almost good, or kind of good, or kind of cringe, you want to fix it. You’re writing stories that you think are kind of as good as the ones that you’re getting.”

For Coppa, the point of fandom is rarely the object itself. It’s about participation, creating, debating, reimagining, and cringe can fuel that fire. That explains why TSITP isn’t something fans quietly binge alone at home. It’s loud, communal, messy. “You can do fandom totally alone,” Coppa adds, “but the fact that you’re talking about a watch party—that, to me, is a fan. I want to be with other people, and I want to be talking about it and laughing about it and speculating and writing stories in my head.”

The sense of togetherness TSITP sparks might feel uniquely digital, born from TikTok edits and Twitter threads, but fandom gatherings long predate the internet. Coppa sees today’s watch parties as part of a much older tradition—one dating to the serialized novels of the 19th century. The internet may have amplified making it easier to find fellow obsessives, but the impulse itself—to process art collectively, to speculate in the gaps, to wait and watch together—is timeless, she said. 

“Not to be too historical about this, but Dickens released his novel chapter by chapter by chapter,” she explained. “And in many ways, that serialized 19th century fiction was like television, where people would read it together and then be like, I wonder what's going to happen.”

Escapism With a Side of Nostalgia

For many, the show also doubles as an escape. At one watch party, the second-to-last episode aired on the same night conservative commentator Charlie Kirk was shot, underscoring just how badly people needed to escape the chaotic real world by way of a fictional one.

“There’s a reason people are going a little nuts,” Coppa says. “People are very atomized, very isolated. A lot of traditional structures, like religion, aren’t holding people together anymore. I think a lot of people use TV in a way like church.”

For some fans, the appeal is about the relief of having something communal to hold on to in a time that often feels downright bleak. Ashley Valerio, 29, describes it as a temporary sanctuary from reality.

“[This show] gives people a sense of togetherness,” she says. “There’s so much craziness going on in the world now. We had terrible news today. Crazy stuff is happening. 9/11 is tomorrow. [I] think it’s needed that everyone can just forget about everything on a Wednesday and bond over hating men. I don’t know what everyone’s going to do when this is over, but they’re probably going to be depressed.”

There’s also the pull of nostalgia. TikTok creator Zarina Cornelius credits the show’s resonance to the fact that Jenny Han’s original book trilogy—published between 2009 and 2011—was a formative read for many fans now in their 20s and 30s. 

“This was one of the first book series that I ever read with someone,” Cornelius says. “So seeing it brought to life as adults is like a full-circle thing. You get to see the complications of love. And I think that is something that teenagers should be seeing—a story that allows them to be messy and complicated without it being called cringe.”

A Fandom That Won’t Be Ignored

The fandom has grown so passionate this season that showrunners had to intervene before it even premiered. A post from the official TSITP account on X pleaded with viewers, saying: “Cousins is our safe place. Everything good, everything magical. Let’s keep the conversation kind this summer. We have a ZERO tolerance policy for bullying and hate speech.” 

The post warned that harassment, doxxing, or targeting cast and crew would result in bans.

While this may seem extreme, in the case of The Summer I Turned Pretty, it proves that that very messiness critics dismiss as corny, is why the show thrives. 

“Certain shows seem to encourage participatory viewership," says Coppa, the English and film studies professor. "They can’t be too good, because it’s got to be a show you could watch at a bar and have a good time. It’s like there’s some music you don’t talk during, and then there’s music you dance to. This is music you dance to.”

Maybe that’s the real secret. The Summer I Turned Pretty never had to be perfect to matter. It just had to give people a reason to gather, to argue, to laugh, and to feel something together. For one strange, messy season, Cousins Beach became the backdrop for our own need for connection. And that’s why, cringe and all, it ended up defining the summer.