From the very first season of Sex Education in 2019, Laurie Nunn’s teen dramedy series has not missed.

Turning teen tropes upside down, the beloved Netflix series has long nailed what it says on the tin: demystifying sex and relationships for its characters and viewers. I can’t overstate how important a show Sex Education has been for the last four years, on and offscreen; the series was instrumental in defining how vital intimacy coordinators are on set, and enlisted sex educators as script consultants.

A modern response to outdated instructional videos forced upon many a classroom, Sex Education has woven explainers through its narratives, finding humanity in sex scenes and delving into underrepresented areas from every possible angle of being a teenager. It’s tackled everything from masturbation, STIs and sexual health, teen pregnancy and abortion, asexuality, slut-shaming, body image, valuing pleasure, and stepping up representation, as well as sensitively handling conversations around sexual assault, drug addiction, and mental health. The show isn’t just about sex and intimacy, but about friendship, camaraderie, and meeting ourselves as we are. It’s also consistently hilarious.

Sex Education has remained constant in this spectrum of representation, as Jess Joho wrote in her Mashable review of Season 1: “Without ever erring into the Forced Wokeness of other Netflix Originals (**ahem** Chilling Adventures of Sabrina), the show effortlessly depicts the broad spectrum of humanity that is sex. And that means doing much more than just dropping progressive buzzwords and aphorisms, or showing non-heterosexual couples.”

Like seasons before it, Season 4 is also gloriously queer, and like fellow teen shows like Love, Victor, Euphoria, and Heartstopper, puts LGBTQ characters to the front, with a range of sexualities and identities navigating a range of teen experiences, boosted by a bunch of new faces from the season’s new school. Written by Nunn, Troy Hunter, Krishna Istha, Ethan Harvey, Annalisa Dinnella, Bella Heesom, and Thara Popoola, Season 4 is a powerful, heartfelt, and deeply emotional farewell. Sex Education grows up alongside the residents of Moordale, embracing a new setting, new characters, new milestones, and even leaning on surrealism to address complex concepts of faith, identity, and mortality. 

And of course, there’s a copious amount of shagging.

Sex Education Season 4 grows with its characters 

Kedar Williams-Stirling as Jackson and Chinenye Ezeudu as Viv. Credit: Samuel Taylor/Netflix

Directed by Alyssa McClelland, Dominic Leclerc, and Michelle Savill, Season 4 reunites with a scattered Moordale crew, with Maeve (Emma Mackey) studying writing in America, Adam (Connor Swindells) headed toward apprenticeships, and the majority of the gang attending a new school, Cavendish College, a mindful education paradise/Big Tech campus that’s much more progressive than straight-laced Moordale Secondary — “All the gays everywhere!” Eric beams. Here, Otis (Asa Butterfield) battles with a rival sex therapist, O (Thaddea Graham), already running things on campus; their campaigns for dominance prove the core, but not the most compelling arc, of the season.

Sex Education‘s characters have a lot on their plates this season. Eric (Ncuti Gatwe) is flourishing among new friends, Cal (Dua Saleh) is going through the stress of transitioning, Aimee (Aimee Lou Wood) is healing from trauma, Jackson (Kedar Williams-Stirling) is looking for family answers, Viv (Chinenye Ezeudu) is finding her voice within an abusive relationship, Isaac (George Robinson) has a burgeoning crush on a friend, and Otis accidentally shows the whole school a pic of his flaccid penis.

Gillian Anderson as Jean. Credit: Samuel Taylor/Netflix

Gillian Anderson is sublime once again as Jean, who’s dealing with postnatal depression and the anxiety of returning to work when a radio presenter job materialises. Both circumstances mean banger new characters, with the arrival of the delightful Lisa McGrillis as Jean’s chaotic but well-meaning sister Joanna, and Hannah Gadsby as Jean’s producer — a piece of casting that delivers perfectly deadpan Gadsby moments like an unfortunate incident with chili oil as lubricant she deems “peri-peri for the peri-perimenopause”. 

Navigating newfound feelings for an unexpected crush while still recovering from her trauma, Aimee is a steadfast gem, as always. Wood effortlessly drops Aimee’s unfiltered thoughts and gleefully connects with her character’s penchant for creating joy in dark times, as she finds a way to process her assault through art. Plus, she’s embracing her inner sex toy critic, which we love. 

Aimee Lou Wood as Aimee and George Robinson as Isaac. Credit: Samuel Taylor/Netflix

But one of the quieter, but most powerful storylines of the season follows Cal’s experience with gender dysphoria in a superb performance by Saleh. Cal has been six months on testosterone, recording the effects, and exploring top surgery — with the series showing the direct impact on mental health that the wait times facing trans and non-binary teens for gender-affirming care can have. Cal’s sense of isolation and, ultimately, self-loathing is devastating, and Saleh imbues their character with the sense of wanting to disappear at every moment. Sex Education demonstrates the vital importance of LGBTQ spaces, to have fun, feel safe, meet people, and find advice without judgment, as Cal finds some important answers with new character Roman (Felix Mufti).

Dua Saleh as Cal and Felix Mufti as Roman. Credit: Samuel Taylor/Netflix

Ncuti Gatwa and Emma Mackey are season standouts

If you’re a longtime Sex Education fan, I don’t need to tell you how flawless Gatwa’s performance as the iconic, vulnerable, magnificent, deeply passionate Eric Effiong is, but I’m going to anyway.

Every single time Gatwa enters a scene or must internalise Eric’s frustration or excitement, it’s overtly theatrical, spontaneous, unfiltered, and it’s everything. Taking Eric beyond his exasperated why-did-you-do-this monologues at Otis, Gatwa moves Eric into a complex, philosophical realm this season, with his complicated journey through being young, gay, and religious. Eric’s relationship with his faith, his family, and his Christian community becomes one of the season’s most compelling arcs, seeing Sex Education lean on surrealism to portray Eric’s spiritual encounters. 

Credit: Samuel Taylor/Netflix

As Eric finds himself distanced from Otis and embraced by his new Cavendish friends, he is able to let his true self soar — in his impeccable wardrobe as much as his heart. Eric particularly finds support and understanding through newcomer Abbi (Anthony Lexa), as the two of them examine what it means to be LGBTQ and Christian, feeling unable to live your truth and having to “hide parts of myself that others might not be comfortable with.”

Emma Mackey as Maeve. Credit: Samuel Taylor/Netflix

Mackey, too, is superb as the series’ brooding rebel Maeve, dealing with disconnection from home alongside the complexities of privilege and academic pressure of American college. While Maeve’s story has seen her plunged into dark places throughout the series, now Mackey pushes her to the limit through tragedy and loss within her dysfunctional family. In one of the season’s best scenes, a rare and vulnerable moment between Jean and Maeve (they’ve never met?!), brings out Anderson and Mackey’s best.

Maeve goes through a little bit of a Rory Gilmore moment, excelling at high school then struggling with a bigger university environment with real writers. But she’s much more polite and less privileged about it than Rory (I said what I said), taking on her tutor’s feedback and trying to write from an honest place. Maeve doesn’t come from money or influence, so when she feels like she’s failing while others succeed, it hits harder — everything is on the line. 

Sex Education Season 4 makes strong points about accessibility

Sex Education stepped up in Season 3, casting its first actor with a disability, George Robinson, as the astute, cantankerous, romantic Isaac, who also happens to be quadriplegic. This season, the show levels up its inclusivity with multiple actors and storylines dealing with accessibility and discrimination, namely through Isaac and newcomer James as Aisha, who is deaf.

During the season, Sex Education uses a constantly-breaking elevator as a means of developing the friendship between Aimee and Isaac, but it’s also a means of demonstrating the inaccessibility Isaac has to deal with almost daily.

George Robinson as Isaac. Credit: Samuel Taylor/Netflix

Sex Education not only casts actors with various disabilities in James and Robinson, the series actually develops their characters as multi-dimensional and individual, not playing into problematic tropes, and actually representing people with disabilities in sexual or romantic contexts on screen. Isaac’s experience of sexuality in Season 3 was so beautifully rendered, and in Season 4, Sex Education expands this representation with his new crush and Aisha’s various relationships. But like the rest of the cast, Aisha and Isaac also exist beyond their romantic lives too, as fully formed characters.

Season 4’s new characters are everything

Since the press images of Dan Levy joining the cast of Sex Education circulated, we’ve been enthused, and the Schitt’s Creek maestro is a perfect addition to the cast as Maeve’s tutor, novelist Thomas Molloy. Levy perfectly channels dark academia in cosy brown knits, surrounded by leather-bound volumes of something-or-other, and lamenting his rejection from the New Yorker (“Well, apparently everyone’s writing about gay shit now, so…” ). His screen time is limited, but he makes it count.

Dan Levy as Thomas Molloy with Mackey. Credit: Samuel Taylor/Netflix

Some Sex Education favourites don’t return; Olivia (Simone Ashley) and Anwar (Chaneil Kular) have gone to another secondary school, Ola (Patricia Allison) left with her heartbroken father Jakob, and Lily’s (Tanya Reynolds) storyline was considered “wrapped up” in Season 3.

But one of the best (and most superbly dressed) parts of Season 4 is the new cast additions collectively known as “The Coven”: eternally positive Elle Woods-style queen bee Abbi (Anthony Lexa), lightly cynical Roman (Felix Mufti), and astrology-obsessed Aisha (Alexandra James). In the talented hands of Lexa, James, and Mufti, the leaders of Cavendish value kindness and inclusion above all — and they’re all queer! Yay! Casual mentions of ethical non-monogamy! Multiple trans characters! LGBTQ club nights suddenly in Moordale! Through The Coven’s approaches to generosity and positivity, Sex Education proposes a rethink of school social dynamics, presenting Cavendish as a “gossip-free zone” and aiming to stamp out the usual teen pitfalls of bullying and exclusion (we said aiming).

It’s a group Eric naturally gravitates toward and Ruby (Mimi Keene) tries desperately to join — despite her flawless Clueless-inspired wardrobe, her Mean Girls schtick doesn’t fly here and she quickly realises her brand of influence is outdated. Keene’s deadpan disdain is a season highlight, with her unshakeable delivery and character’s sharp pivot to performative allyship for social gain. “Just an ally, coming through,” she sings, in a moment gloriously akin to Heartstopper‘s Imogen.

Alexandra James as Aisha, Felix Mufti as Roman, and Anthony Lexa as Abbi. Credit: Samuel Taylor/Netflix

A new character who unjustifiably ends up the villain for most of the season is O, Otis’ rival (and at one point, Jean’s). As a sex therapist hopeful like Otis, O has thousands of followers and a library of online mythbusting videos, not to mention a superb therapy setup with cushions and art and plants — not quite the crumbling toilet block Otis has been working from — and is simply very good at her “job”. It’s the one qualm I have with Sex Education this season, but Graham handles it with grace.

Thaddea Graham as O. Credit: Samuel Taylor/Netflix

The deeply emotional farewell the show deserves

Friends, if you can get through the finale of Sex Education without crying like a baby through every scene, I applaud you. 

The series farewells its characters from a place of truly knowing them, inside and out, and how much they mean to each other, the audience, and the actors who’ve played them. Valuing connection and fellowship, Sex Education champions second chances, forgiveness, and the opportunity to apologise and change your behaviour if you fuck up. The series has grown with its characters, sometimes moving into heavier territory while keeping its silliness, awkwardness, and joy.

Watching this show, watching these teens face their challenges and complexities with such emotional intelligence and support for each other makes me, well, sad — or just plain jealous. I never spoke to my high school friends about insecurity, health, identity, and sexuality like the characters in Sex Education do, and I truly hope this is how teens are talking to each other. (I’m not going to talk to actual teens to check. That is terrifying). 

For four glorious, smart, and meaningful seasons, Sex Education has taught its characters, its cast and crew, and its audience how to be open, how to connect, how to ask for what you want, and how to actually listen to each other. It’s been a lesson worth learning.

How to watch: Sex Education is now streaming on Netflix.