Dying for Sex; Reclaiming Life and Desire in the Face of Death
It’s not every day that a series dares to explore female sexuality with honesty—and even less often does it do so in tandem with the realities of terminal illness. Hulu’s Dying for Sex manages both, telling a bold yet intimate story that invites us to think differently about what it means to be alive. Based on the real experiences of Molly Kochan (1973–2019), the show fictionalizes the podcast and book she created with her friend Nikki Boyer. Michelle Williams plays the role of Molly, whose terminal breast cancer diagnosis sparks an unexpected, deeply personal sexual and emotional awakening.
We first meet Molly in therapy, visibly on edge while her husband, Steve (Jay Duplass), laments that her illness has dampened his desire and compromised their sex life. His tone is self-pitying and oblivious—he’s technically supportive but emotionally absent. When she learns her cancer has returned and is no longer treatable, Molly quietly but definitively walks out: of the therapy session and of her marriage.
Stepping into the emotional and logistical void is Molly’s best friend, Nikki (played with radiant depth by Jenny Slate). Rather than chase a standard “bucket list,” Molly decides to reclaim her sexual self. She turns to dating apps, hoping to reconnect with pleasure and presence. The sexual adventures that follow range from awkward to absurd: one man insists on saying “clasp” repeatedly, another won’t remove his puppy costume—even at chemo appointments. Some moments edge into caricature, though they also highlight how surreal modern dating can feel, especially under extraordinary circumstances.
Still, these escapades aren’t where the soul of the story lives.
What makes Dying for Sex so affecting is its portrayal of emotional intimacy, not just sexual experimentation. Molly’s real transformation unfolds in the spaces where she drops her armor: in group therapy, in tough conversations with her mother (played with haunting grit by Sissy Spacek), in her growing rapport with a next-door neighbor (Rob Delaney), and most poignantly, in her evolving bond with Nikki. Her terminal diagnosis intensifies her life force. She begins to confront her history of sexual trauma, to inhabit her truth with startling clarity, and to allow connection where before there was guardedness and inhibition.
In this way, Dying for Sex isn’t primarily about sex—it’s about awakening. The show refuses to look away from the ordinary and sacred elements of dying. Its quietest scenes often carry the most weight, like those involving a compassionate hospice nurse who feels like the show’s spiritual center. As a therapist, I was especially struck by the series’ invitation to reflect on how grief, mortality, and intimacy are deeply entangled.
Rather than pit death against desire, the series suggests that the two can coexist—and that, in fact, real intimacy often blooms in the shadow of our most finite moments. Many will press play for the edgy premise, but it’s the honesty, vulnerability, and deep humanity that will stay will resonate long after the final credits.
