My partner Jeff and I are a bit behind the cultural times. While everyone else was binging Ted Lasso during the pandemic, we were busy on the front lines of trying to support a world in crisis — Jeff on the front lines of the mental health epidemic at Harvard, and me on the front lines of the digital disinformation crisis created by many of my unethical medical colleagues and self-appointed wellness influencers who profited dearly off other people’s fear and death.
But now that the pace of health-related global emergencies has eased (or at least shifted), we’re finally catching up. And binge-watching Ted Lasso has become our cozy ritual. Jeff is riveted by this show, not because he’s a sports lover, but because, after growing up in a cult and being raised by child abusers who taught him a screwed up, religified version of morality, he feels like he’s learning a thing or two about what’s right and wrong from Apple TV’s Ted Lasso.
Ted Lasso isn’t just a story about football; it’s a story about the messy, beautiful, and often tender ways humans show up for one another. At its heart is Coach Ted Lasso, an endlessly kind, relentlessly hopeful American who finds himself leading a British Premier League team against every possible expectation. Early on, Ted forms a profound connection with Nate Shelley, the team’s quiet, behind-the-scenes kit man. Ted sees and validates Nate, not just his knowledge of soccer, which is prodigious, but his potential to lead, to feel seen, to be acknowledged. Nate, in turn, is captivated by Ted’s inclusive, nurturing energy, the kind that makes a person feel safe enough to grow. Ted promotes Nate from kit man to coach, an act of mentorship that plants a seed of hope and possibility.
But human hearts are complicated, and the tender soil of trust can sometimes become tangled with envy and fear. By Season 2, Nate begins to struggle with his own shadows. He notices the admiration Ted showers on Roy Kent, and a part of him feels unseen, small, and resentful. That resentment, left unchecked, begins to fester, finding expression in subtle cruelties toward the team’s new kit man, Will. Ted’s loyal friend Coach Beard senses the change, witnessing Nate’s bitterness with a mixture of concern and sorrow.
There’s one narrative arc that stopped Jeff and me in our tracks.
The Panic Attack That Became a Turning Point
In Season 1, during a crucial match, Coach Ted Lasso walks off the field mid-game and doesn’t come back. At first, he tells everyone he had food poisoning. But the truth was that Ted was having a panic attack. He hides what happened, not just from the team he coaches, but from pretty much everyone- because that’s what many of us do when something feels too tender, too shameful, too hard to name. Shame thrives in silence. And Ted goes silent.
In Season 2, Ted begins to confide in the team therapist about his panic attacks. His sidekick Nate finds out and leaks the scoop to Trent Crimm, the journalist from The Independent who regularly covers the team’s stories. Trent then publishes the story and- in an extraordinary moment of integrity that could have lost him his job, he privately tells Ted who his source was, we assume because he thought Ted deserved to know who double crossed him.
“Just so you know… it was Nate.”
When the story hits the press, Ted walks into a locker room filled with players who learned something deeply personal about their coach from the world, not from the man they had come to trust with their own vulnerabilities. This is the moment where most of us — especially those who carry attachment wounds — would react with defensiveness, excuses, anger, or shutdown. We’d justify, over-explain, collapse, blame Nate, or withdraw entirely.
Ted makes a different choice. Ted’s team is outraged on his behalf and vows to uncover who the rat was, so they can “find him and fuck him up.”
Ted says, “I’m gonna nip that talk in the butt right now.”( He is then corrected by Coach Beard. “It’s bud, Coach, not butt.”) Ted then redirects the team’s energy towards soccer practice, while Nate hangs his head and looks guilty.
What Repair & Accountability Actually Looks Like
Ted stands in front of his players and tells them the truth, not the sanitized version or the PR version. The real truth. He owns that he lied. He owns that he didn’t trust them. He owns that he missed an opportunity to build intimacy and connection. And then he gives one of the most beautiful accountability speeches I’ve seen on television:
Y’all found out about something from somewhere, when you should’ve found out about it from me first. But I chose not to tell y’all, and that was dumb. You know, fellas, we make a lot of choices in our lives every single day, ranging from, “Am I really about to eat something called Greek yogurt?” To, “Should I leave my family and take a job halfway around the world?” Me choosing not to be forthright with y’all, that was a bad choice. But I can’t be wasting time wishing for a do-over on all that. ‘Cause that ain’t how choices work. No, sir. No. That choice, and my Chicago Bulls Starter jacket that I let Janelle Rhodes borrow my sophomore year ’cause she spilled ketchup all over herself, and it looked like she’d been shot, those are two things I ain’t getting back. ‘Cause every choice is a chance, fellas. And I didn’t give myself the chance to build further trust with y’all. To quote the great UCLA college basketball coach, John Obi-Wan Gandalf, ‘It is our choices, gentlemen, that show what we truly are, far more than our abilities.’ Now, I hope y’all can forgive me for what I’ve done. ‘Cause I sure as heck wouldn’t want any of y’all to hold anything back with me.
He doesn’t shame himself. He doesn’t justify himself. He doesn’t point the finger at Nate to deflect from his own evasiveness and lying.. He just stands there, heart open, acknowledging the hurt he caused and asking for forgiveness.
The team captain Isaac looks him in the eyes and says, simply, “Nah, we got you, Coach.”
But here’s the part that deserves even more attention, especially for those of us healing from relational trauma- how Ted dealt with Nate. When Ted learns that Nate has betrayed him, he does not drag Nate in front of the team and publicly out him for his dick move. He does not retaliate, shame him, or match his cruelty with Ted’s own cruelty. Ted protects Nate’s dignity even as he holds the line and holds him to account.
By talking to the team about choices, Ted calls Nate in, not out. He is quietly acknowledging that Nate made a choice, and that choices have consequences. He doesn’t pretend nothing happened. But he refuses to humiliate him. He creates space for Nate to face himself- the insecurity underneath his rage, the longing underneath his attacks, the wound underneath his betrayal. Ted doesn’t argue with Nate’s distorted story about being abandoned. He simply reflects reality, calmly and firmly. He treats Nate like someone worth telling the truth to.
Then he gives Nate freedom, without abandoning his own integrity. Ted doesn’t cling, chase, or try to stop Nate from acting out. He doesn’t weaponize forgiveness or guilt-trip him. He talks to the team, and with it, Nate, about how we have a choice about who we are and how we’ll behave. He doesn’t direct this lecture to Nate alone. He addresses the whole team. In doing so, Ted shows Nate love without sacrificing boundaries, and boundaries without sacrificing love.
No drama. No gossip. No one-upping moral superiority. Just “This is what happened. I’m here if you ever want a different relationship.” Every choice is a chance.
The Medicine of This Moment
Why did this hit me so hard? Because what Ted modeled is the antidote to so many of the relational patterns I see in people who are “relationsick” – stuck in trauma dynamics, protector patterns, and reflexive defenses that undermine the love we are trying to preserve. Ted shows us that accountability doesn’t have to be self-punishing; it can be loving. Vulnerability doesn’t have to feel like weakness; it can be strength. Repair doesn’t have to be dramatic or complicated; it can be simple, if both people are willing. And more importantly, intimacy grows not when we get it right, but when we clean it up when we got it wrong.
Jeff was deeply impacted by this scene because what was modeled for him in his abusive childhood home was a complete lack of accountability, with a side of narcissistic defenses, like minimization, justification, invalidation, attacking anyone who tries to hold someone accountable, and blaming the victim.
Top that with religious indoctrination that puts the onus of forgiveness squarely on the victim, without any accountability for the perpetrator and you have a recipe for helplessness, powerlessness, hopelessness, and frustration for those who are betrayed by the people who are supposed to love them and be loyal to them.
I know it’s fiction, but as we head into the holiday season, maybe we can all reflect on where repair might be needed, where we might need to hold ourselves accountable, where we might need to speak up to someone else who has hurt us, and how we might participate in the mutuality of what relational repair requires.
Who in your life are you avoiding, rather than confronting?
Would it be safe to confront them instead of just ghosting them?
Who in your life seems to be avoiding you, rather than explaining why they’re upset?
What do you regret?
What leaves you feeling remorse?
How might you take the lead on initiating a repair process, whether you’re the one guilty of wrongdoing, you’re the one wronged, or a combination of both?
If you need support learning how to develop relational healing skills, like repair after rupture, we welcome you to join our IFS community of practice and relational repair LOVE SCHOOL.
Learn more about LOVE SCHOOL here.
We may not have the entertainment value of Ted Lasso, but we sincerely care about helping survivors of relational trauma learn how to develop the skills and practice of healthier relating.