No Trauma, No Tragedy: How Schitt’s Creek Rewrote the Rules for Queer Love on TV

A reflection on why David and Patrick’s healthy, supportive, drama-free relationship felt so radical in a landscape dominated by queer pain narratives

Television has never been kind to queer characters. More often than not, queer storylines have carried with them the heavy burden of teaching straight audiences a lesson: about tolerance, about tragedy, about the risks of being different in a hostile world. Queer couples don’t just get to fall in love—they have to suffer for it. They have to come out in a big, dramatic arc. They have to face family rejection. They have to navigate violence, heartbreak, or death. Because for decades, that’s all queer love was allowed to be on screen—a lesson or a loss.

Then Schitt’s Creek came along and gave us David Rose and Patrick Brewer.
And it quietly changed everything.

“Thank you…um, I’ve never done that before. With a guy. And uh, I was getting a little scared that I was gonna let you leave here without us having done that”

Patrick, to David after their first kiss (still makes me swoon)

From the moment Patrick entered David’s world in Season 3, their relationship did something almost unheard of in mainstream television—it just worked. Yes, there were nerves, missteps, and insecurities. But there was no homophobic backlash, no tragic third-act betrayal, no brutal reminder that queer joy must come with a price.

Instead, Schitt’s Creek let them fall in love the way straight couples have always been allowed to on TV—with tenderness, humour, and the kind of ordinary intimacy that felt quietly revolutionary.

When Patrick came out to his parents, it wasn’t explosive or heartbreaking. His parents didn’t reject him. The conflict wasn’t rooted in bigotry—it was rooted in communication, in the nerves of sharing something deeply personal with people you love. And when they did learn the truth, they embraced it. It was handled with care, but never framed as a defining trauma. It was normal. And in doing so, Schitt’s Creek gave queer viewers something many of us had never seen before—a coming out without devastation.

The magic of David and Patrick’s relationship wasn’t just in what it avoided, but in what it embraced. Their love story was filled with lightness, awkwardness, and deeply relatable moments:

  • Patrick teaching David how to hike without anxiety spiraling.

  • David fumbling through surprise gifts and romantic gestures.

  • Patrick serenading David with Simply the Best, turning a cheesy 80s anthem into a queer anthem of emotional safety.

  • Their engagement, filled with clumsy excitement rather than over-produced sentimentality.

Too often, queer characters are only given screen time if their stories are tragic or trauma-fuelled. David and Patrick proved that healthy, stable, loving relationships can be just as compelling. Their dynamic showed that conflict doesn’t have to come from outside forces trying to tear them apart—it can come from the everyday work of building a life together, navigating fears, flaws, and futures.

“You’re my Mariah Carey.”

Patrick, saying the gayest thing I ever heard. And I mean that as a compliment!

Perhaps the most quietly radical choice Schitt’s Creek made was its deliberate exclusion of homophobia from its universe. Dan Levy, the show’s creator and star, made it clear that he wanted to create a world where queerness wasn’t something to be feared or hated—it was simply part of life. By doing so, the show didn’t ignore the real challenges queer people face, but it dared to imagine a world where we don’t have to fight to exist.

In that world, David could be unapologetically himself—pansexual, dramatic, anxious, and deeply loving—without ever having to justify his existence. Patrick could discover his queerness later in life without shame. And their relationship could flourish in a small town that never once questioned their right to love openly.

In a television landscape still littered with dead lesbians, queerbaited storylines, and tragic endings, David and Patrick’s story felt like a warm light in the dark. It showed that queer love doesn’t have to be sanitized, sensationalized, or sacrificed to be meaningful. It can be funny. It can be awkward. It can be safe. And most importantly, it can last.

“Patrick Brewer, you are my happy ending.”

David, with the kind of line that makes grown gays cry in designer knitwear.

In the end, their wedding wasn’t just a happy ending for them—it was a quiet promise to every queer viewer watching that we deserve joy, too. We deserve relationships that aren’t framed as warnings or cautionary tales. We deserve stories that don’t teach straight audiences a lesson at our expense.

We deserve love that feels simply the best—and Schitt’s Creek finally gave it to us.