A few years ago, I saw that Netflix was airing a new adult-oriented cartoon set in an alternate reality version of Los Angeles where cursing, drinking animals live alongside cursing, drinking humans. The trailer featured a lot of cheesy puns and some irreverent humor, so I turned it on for some background noise while working on other projects. I never expected the emotional bait-and-switch of BoJack Horseman. While the brightly-colored show brims with jokes and wordplay and humorous situations, BoJack is not a traditional comedy. It is an extended meditation on depression, the fleetingness of success, and humanity’s search for meaning through the eyes of a talking horse.

Every character presents flaws, and just like in real life, they frequently have to learn the same lessons over and over again. A washed-up 90s sitcom actor, the titular horse constantly tries to define himself by his successes and failures. In early seasons, BoJack’s identity revolves around his old tv show, his memoir, and other creative efforts, with even the closing theme music bragging, “Back in the 90s, I was in a very famous TV show…” Even in later seasons where BoJack seems to adjust and grow slightly, he defines himself by success as a son or friend or parental figure. BoJack chases a never-ending quest to prove to the world he is a good person, despite never truly feeling this way about himself. Meanwhile, the people/animals around him model all sorts of other dysfunction.

BoJack’s ghostwriter, Diane, displays many of the same traits as BoJack himself (stubbornness, toxic ambition, unresolved family strife), yet her ups and downs on the road to fame grant her a clarity and practicality the other characters frequently tune out to her frustration. BoJack’s agent (an anthropomorphic cat named Princess Carolyn) must continually assess whether she’s really helping her clients or just enabling their worst behaviors, all the while struggling to identify what she really wants out of life. BoJack’s roommate, the underachieving but kindhearted Todd, can’t seem to get a handle on responsibility. And then there’s BoJack’s annoyingly likable frenemy, Mr. Peanutbutter, a golden retriever who avoids any negative emotion or hard conversation, insisting instead on constant blind happiness to the detriment of his relationships.

Any of these characters may experience tremendous growth over one season only to wind up facing almost identical issues in the next, and I love this about the show. It’s not that the characters “don’t grow”— they grow tremendously! The problem is, when confronted with new challenges, they usually revert to old unhealthy coping mechanisms (which is exactly what people tend to do in the real world too). I’ve never seen a show portray this as well as BoJack, and while it’s worth watching for this reason alone, the writers and actors have given us even more.

Each season has an “experimental” episode which differs radically in format or tone from the rest of the season, giving viewers a new pathway into the characters’ thoughts and emotions. Season 3 has “Fish Out of Water,” a mostly-silent episode where BoJack struggles with whether he’s capable of nurturing another life given his own twisted upbringing. Season 4 has the heartbreaking “Time’s Arrow,” which retells the previous few episodes through the eyes of a character with dementia. In the episode, characters’ faces and voices blur unpredictably as time slaloms between past and present, and the demented character’s bizarre comments from previous episodes suddenly make sense as the viewer experiences reality from her perspective. I didn’t think the BoJack writers could ever surpass “Time’s Arrow,” but then I watched season 5.

The season 5 episode “Free Churro” is unlike anything I’ve ever seen on television. After an initial flashback and opening credits, the remaining 20 minutes of the episode take place at a funeral where BoJack gives the eulogy. With no cutaways or flashbacks for the entire 20-minute speech, we see BoJack wrestle with his grief, not just for the person who has died, but for the strained and complicated relationship they shared. Through the eulogy, BoJack reflects on every death he’s experienced to this point (none of which he has significantly mourned until now), and he struggles to understand this most recent decedent’s poignant last words to him: I see you. Of course, BoJack being BoJack, he can’t stop himself from repeatedly quipping: “But hey, at least the cashier at Jack-in-the-Box gave me a free churro.” The riff grows more sardonic each time BoJack intones it, and by the end of the speech, the churro has become a painful shorthand for empty sympathy amid devastating loss. “Free Churro” is one of the best depictions of complex grief I’ve ever encountered, and I’m probably going to develop a workshop around it at some point. It is that good.

So yeah, BoJack Horseman is not what I expected. It’s not just a silly cartoon with cursing, drinking animals. It’s a deep and frequently painful exploration of humanity’s search for meaning amid failure, loneliness, grief, depression, and substance abuse. It’s a crash course in existential philosophy, a reflection on the ways humans cope —however unhealthily— with our own mortality. While not necessarily a happy viewing experience and sporting plenty of humor some viewers might find inappropriate, BoJack provides an insightful, empathic, and even hopeful journey. I can’t recommend this show enough.