Some stories sneak up on you, quietly carving out a space in your chest before you realize how deeply they’ve settled. Sort Of was that for me. I stumbled across it in the fog of 2021’s lockdown, still reeling from the loss of my mother, trying to stitch together pieces of myself. Sabi Mehboob, with their messy, unpolished, and deeply human existence, felt like a quiet hand on my shoulder, saying, This messiness? It’s allowed.
Bilal Baig’s performance, layered and unflinching, doesn’t seek approval or explanation. Sabi is a character who refuses to flatten their identity to fit others’ comfort, embodying the complexity of being brown, trans, and non-binary with a softness that is rarely afforded to people like us on screen. Their relationships—with their family, their friends, even the kids they care for—are as tangled and tender as life itself.
That was the power of Sort Of—it didn’t need to scream its importance. It just let people like me, who’ve spent our lives hovering in liminal spaces, feel seen.
Sabi’s World: Messy, Relatable, and Real
The brilliance of Sort Of lies in its small moments: a half-smile during a tense conversation, the silence between words, the unspoken weight of cultural expectations. Sabi’s journey—navigating their relationship with their immigrant parents, confronting unspoken grief, and carving a space for their own desires—is deeply, painfully familiar.
Sabi’s Muslim background is woven into the narrative without being tokenized. The show explores how faith and tradition coexist with queerness and fluidity, tackling cultural dissonance with grace. Grief permeates the series—through Bessy’s accident, the family’s unspoken losses, and Sabi’s personal journey of healing and self-acceptance. These moments are tenderly balanced with humor, making the pain feel bearable and the healing achievable.
At its core, the show centers queer relationships in all their forms—platonic, romantic, and familial.
The tension between Sabi and their mother, Raffo (Ellora Patnaik) is a masterclass in restraint. Those loaded silences, the love that’s so clear yet so difficult to articulate, the cultural clashes that feel like bruises you carry but can’t pinpoint the cause of—it’s all so deeply resonant. Raffo is often torn between her love for Sabi and the societal expectations pressing down on her. Her silence in pivotal moments reflects a quiet tension familiar in many South Asian families navigating queerness. The tension deepens in later seasons, adding more layers to the show’s exploration of familial love. It’s the kind of storytelling that sits with you, quietly unraveling your own memories.
And then there’s 7ven (Amanda Cordner), Sabi’s best friend—a whirlwind of humor, chaos, and unwavering loyalty. The kind of friend who feels like home, even when everything else crumbles. Their bond is beautifully honest, a reminder that chosen families are not side notes but the beating heart of queer stories.
Supporting Cast: Depth and Complexity
Aqsa (Supinder Wraich), Sabi’s sister, provides a fascinating counterpoint. While she’s supportive of Sabi, her insecurities and desire for validation within their traditional family structure create moments of conflict. Her attempts to balance ambition and family duty bring a fresh dynamic to the family narrative.
Bessy (Grace Lynn Kung), whose journey of rediscovery intertwines with Sabi’s, is another standout character. Her vulnerability and strength reflect the complexities of reclaiming oneself after trauma. Even Paul, Bessy’s awkward yet earnest husband, offers glimpses of allyship—sometimes clumsy, but always sincere.
The children Sabi nannies—Henry (Aden Bedard) and Violet (Kaya Kanashiro)—add a layer of innocence and unfiltered honesty. Their interactions with Sabi bring lightness, showing how children often understand and accept complexity with ease, something adults struggle with.
Sabi’s father, Imran (Dhirendra), returns in Season 2 after years abroad, introducing another layer of familial tension. His struggle to reconnect with Sabi while grappling with his own ideas of masculinity and tradition speaks to the complexities of immigrant parenting and generational misunderstandings.
Sabi’s initial love interest, Lewis (Gregory Ambrose Calderone), embodies the tension between attraction and societal expectations. His internalized shame and discomfort with Sabi’s gender identity reflect the complexities of queer relationships and the challenges of unlearning ingrained biases. His arc mirrors the struggles many face when reconciling love and identity within rigid societal norms.
Olympia (Cassandra James) brings a grounded grace, navigating her trans identity with quiet strength. Alok V Menon’s cameo as themselves is a burst of humor and raw insight, their pioneering voice in the South Asian trans community making their presence both powerful and affirming. While Wolf (Raymond Cham Jr.) offers a subtle yet compelling lens on modern masculinity and queerness. All these characters break the mold of one-dimensional side roles, enriching the narrative with depth, complexity, and a refreshing defiance of tired tropes.
Humor and Heartbreak, Intertwined
What makes Sort Of truly special is its seamless blend of humor and raw emotion. TThe humor doesn’t diminish the pain; it sharpens it, like the sharp inhale before a tearful laugh—a reminder that even heavy moments can carry a touch of absurdity.
The series captures the quiet heartbreak of not fitting into societal molds, paired with the absurdity of someone trying to shove you into one. By Season 3, its exploration of grief and identity deepens, its tender yet biting dialogue striking a deeply personal chord. Watching Sabi wade through the murky waters of loss and self-reclamation felt like peering into my own fractured reflection, their journey an aching balm to wounds I hadn’t fully faced.
Despite its gentle approach, Sort Of doesn’t shy away from the harder conversations—family expectations, the quiet violence of cultural dissonance, the liminal spaces we inhabit between belonging and otherness. It’s a poignant tale of grief, growth, and self-discovery, told with a grace that never compromises its emotional weight.
The Creative Force Of Sort Of
Sort Of was shaped by the creative brilliance of Bilal Baig, Fab Filippo, Jenn Engels, Nelu Handa, and Ian Iqbal Rashid, who contributed to its nuanced writing. Directed by Filippo and Renuka Jeyapalan, the series also saw Rashid and Engels serving as co-executive producers, ensuring its layered storytelling and authentic representation.
The show’s brilliance stems not just from Baig’s deeply empathetic performance but also from Filippo’s co-creative vision. His direction and storytelling amplify the series’ ability to navigate the complexities of identity, queerness, and belonging with both tenderness and sharp wit, creating a narrative space that feels both revolutionary and deeply intimate.
Why Its Loss Stings
Each season of Sort Of unveiled new layers, deepening its narrative in both unexpected and heartfelt ways. It’s no surprise that Sort Of has received critical acclaim, winning Best Comedy Series at the Canadian Screen Awards twice and earning a prestigious Peabody Award.
Despite its undeniable impact, the cancellation after three seasons felt like a gut punch—a stark reminder of how fragile queer and BIPOC narratives remain in mainstream media. This decision is not an anomaly but part of a troubling pattern: queer-centered shows, particularly those featuring or led by BIPOC characters and creators, are often axed prematurely. It underscores an industry still tethered to a flawed system that places ‘marketability’ above authenticity and bold storytelling.
But Sort Of leaves behind an undeniable legacy. It wasn’t just a show—it was a lifeline. For those of us navigating in-between spaces, it proved that our experiences are not just valid but vital.
As a queer, brown, trans filmmaker, Sort Of was a mirror in a room full of walls. It affirmed that our messiness is beautiful, our stories matter, and simply existing can be the most radical act. For those of us who’ve felt unseen, Sort Of reminded us that we’re enough—and that’s everything.
Disclaimer:
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