Why "The Summer I Turned Pretty" Has Captivated Women of All Ages This Summer
When "The Summer I Turned Pretty" first dropped on Prime Video, the dismissive takes were predictable: another YA adaptation for teenage girls and their feelings. As if teenage girls haven't been the cultural tastemakers driving everything from Beatlemania to Taylor Swift's record-breaking success. As if stories about young women discovering their own power aren't worthy of serious attention.
But here we are, three seasons deep (with the final season wrapping up in September 2025), and the conversation has exploded across generations. Your mom's texting theories. Your boss is Team Conrad. Women who've been through divorces are dissecting Belly's choices like they're graduate-level relationship studies.
So what gives? Why is "The Summer I Turned Pretty" so popular across age groups that should theoretically have different priorities? Let me break it down for you, because this phenomenon reveals something profound about how women connect with stories—and how we've been conditioned to apologize for that connection.
Teen Feelings Deserve a Damn Spotlight
Here's what "The Summer I Turned Pretty" gets right: it treats Belly's feelings with the gravity they deserve. When she's torn between Conrad and Jeremiah, the show doesn't roll its eyes at teenage indecision. It understands that for Belly, these choices feel world-defining because they are world-defining
Most of us are walking around as adults who've learned to moderate our emotional responses, to be "reasonable" about love and loss. Then Belly experiences heartbreak with that devastating combination of surprise and intensity, and we remember: this is what it felt like before we learned to protect ourselves.
The show performs something like emotional archaeology, excavating feelings we buried under years of practicality and compromise. It reminds us that the capacity for that kind of all-consuming love doesn't disappear—it just goes underground.
Team Conrad vs. Team Jeremiah
Conrad and Jeremiah represent two fundamentally different approaches to love, and that dichotomy transcends age.
Conrad is the moody, complicated one who loves deeply but struggles to show it. He's every person you've ever loved who made you work for their affection, who made you question if you were worth it, who made you believe that love should hurt a little to be real.
Jeremiah is golden retriever boyfriend energy personified. He's consistent, available, and genuinely kind. He's the person your therapist would tell you to choose, the one who would never make you wonder where you stand.
What we're watching is a legitimate exploration of what we actually want versus what we think we should want in love. And that internal battle? It doesn't end when you turn 20.
Messy Girls Deserve Main Character Energy Too
Belly is messy, selfish sometimes, and makes questionable decisions. And instead of punishing her for it or demanding she be more "likable," the narrative lets her exist in all her complicated humanity.
Most stories either saint-ify young women or demonize them for wanting things. Belly wants both boys. She makes promises she can't keep. She acts like the protagonist of her own story because she is the protagonist of her own story. And the show says: yes, you're allowed to want things. Yes, you're allowed to make mistakes while figuring out what those things are.
For younger viewers, it's permission to be imperfect while still deserving love. For older viewers, it's a reminder that the messy parts of ourselves don't need to be hidden or fixed—they need to be understood.
That Beach House Is Basically Emotional Real Estate Porn
The Cousins Beach house isn't just a setting—it's a character. It's this perfect blend of shabby-chic coastal vibes and generational wealth that feels both attainable and completely out of reach.
Post-pandemic, when most of us spent two years staring at the same four walls, the idea of a summer sanctuary where generations of families have made memories hits different. It's not just about the house—it's about the continuity, the tradition, the idea that some things remain constant even when everything else feels chaotic.
The show serves up this fantasy of belonging to something bigger than yourself, of having a place where you're always welcome, where every summer promises magic. In our increasingly transient, digital world, that kind of rootedness is basically porn.
First Love Isn’t “Practice”—It’s a Permanent Tattoo on Your Soul
Here's what patriarchal narratives get wrong about young love: they treat it like practice, a starter relationship before the "serious" ones begin. "The Summer I Turned Pretty" says something radical: that love was real, and it shaped everything that came after.
The show validates the intensity of first love instead of dismissing it as naive. It says that the person you loved at 16 can still matter when you're 25, 35, 45—not because you haven't grown, but because some relationships carve themselves so deeply into who you are that they become part of your emotional foundation.
For younger viewers, it's validation that their feelings have weight and consequence. For older viewers, it's permission to acknowledge that maybe that person from summer camp actually did redirect the entire trajectory of their emotional life. And there's nothing shameful about that.
The Writing Trusts Women's Intelligence
Unlike adaptations that water down their source material for broader appeal, "The Summer I Turned Pretty" trusts its predominantly female audience to follow complex emotional storylines.
The love triangle explores themes of grief, family dynamics, class differences, and personal growth without excessive exposition or hand-holding.
The show understands that women (regardless of age) are sophisticated consumers of narrative. It lets moments breathe. It trusts silences. It knows that the most important conversations often happen in the spaces between words, and it believes its audience is smart enough to read those silences.
That respect for viewers' emotional intelligence appeals to women who are tired of being underestimated, while still maintaining the emotional authenticity that makes the story compelling across generations.
High Drama, Low Trauma: Why Women Keep Coming Back
Additionally, “The Summer I Turned Pretty" offers something precious to its audience: a contained universe where you can feel deeply without feeling destroyed. The conflicts feel manageable but meaningful. The drama is intense but ultimately safe.
The show creates space for women to process their own experiences through Belly's journey: to revisit their own formative summers, first loves, and family dynamics in a context that won't retraumatize them. It's therapy disguised as entertainment, and there's profound value in that.
The show reminds us that stories about women's emotional lives aren't frivolous, they're essential. They help us understand ourselves, process our experiences, and connect with other women across generational lines.
Plus, the show uses music as cultural currency. When Taylor Swift's songs soundtrack pivotal moments, or when Olivia Rodrigo's voice becomes the backdrop for Belly's realizations, these aren't just mood-setting choices—they're connecting the show to a larger pop culture conversation that spans generations. The music creates instant emotional recognition, making viewers feel like they're living inside their own carefully curated playlist.
From Flirty Pool Parties to Existential Crisis: The Glow-Up of TSITP
This story has evolved across its three seasons, and the progression is chef's kiss perfection.
Season 1 gave us the setup: Belly's first real summer at Cousins Beach where she's no longer the awkward kid tagging along. Both Conrad and Jeremiah suddenly see her differently, and she's caught between childhood comfort (Jeremiah) and dangerous attraction (Conrad). Classic first-season territory: establish the triangle, make us care about everyone involved.
Season 2 ranked up the emotional devastation. We watched the aftermath of Belly's choice, dealt with grief and loss, and saw how adult problems crash into teenage romance. The stakes got real when family dynamics shifted and everyone had to grow up fast. It was messier, more complicated, and absolutely brutal in the best way.
Season 3 is currently airing and has already thrown everything we thought we knew out the window. Set in college, it's deviating significantly from Jenny Han's books, giving us a time jump and forcing everyone to reckon with who they actually are versus who they were during those formative summers. Without giving away spoilers, let's just say this final season has the internet in a chokehold.
Each new episode breaks Twitter. TikTok creators are posting reaction videos with millions of views. Group chats that have been dormant for months suddenly explode with thesis-length analyses of character motivations. Women are planning their entire weeks around new episode drops.
The cultural conversation reaches fever pitch with every release, with think pieces analyzing everything from costume choices to the deeper implications of Belly's evolving relationships. It's the kind of collective emotional experience that reminds you why we need stories that let women feel things deeply and publicly.
The Meme-ification of Belly’s Summer
You know a cultural moment has truly arrived when brands start parasitically attaching themselves to it. Suddenly everyone was making their own "The Summer I Turned..." memes. "The Summer I Turned Into a Stanley Cup Girl." "The Summer I Turned My Kitchen Into a Sourdough Laboratory." "The Summer I Turned My Savings Account Into Crypto Regret."
It became the perfect meme format because it captures that very specific feeling of transformation that happens during pivotal moments. The show gave us permission to treat our own life changes like they were worthy of a dramatic soundtrack and a three-season character arc.
Women’s Stories Deserve the Cultural Stage—Forever
"The Summer I Turned Pretty" works across generations because it refuses to apologize for centering women's experiences. It understands that we never really stop being the people we were during our formative years—we just get better at code-switching between our public and private selves.
The show peels back layers of societal conditioning to reveal the women we still are underneath: hopeful, romantic, complicated humans who deserve stories that honor the full spectrum of our emotional lives. It reminds us that love—in all its messy, transformative forms—doesn't become less important as we age. It just becomes more nuanced.
Yes, there's a love triangle. Yes, the characters have ridiculous privilege. Yes, it's technically YA. But what we're really watching is a celebration of women's capacity for deep feeling, complex choice-making, and emotional growth. We're seeing young women's stories treated with the respect they've always deserved.
And that? That's long overdue.