As Virgin River prepares to enter its sixth season, the Netflix phenomenon stands at a creative crossroads—one that speaks not only to the future of the series itself,

but also to the emotional weight carried by its characters and the performers who bring them to life. Since its debut, Virgin River has perfected a delicate balance of romance

, tragedy, and small-town intimacy. Viewers return season after season for comfort, familiarity, and the promise that healing—however slow—will eventually arrive.

Yet beneath that warmth lies an accumulating sorrow that has begun to strain the show’s storytelling, particularly for characters like Lizzie, portrayed with aching vulnerability by Sarah Dugdale.

By 2024, Virgin River has become one of Netflix’s most reliable romantic dramas, built on an ensemble of deeply likable characters and storylines that lean unapologetically into emotional realism. But that realism has come at a cost. One of the most persistent criticisms of the series—now something of an inside joke among fans—is its painfully slow-moving timeline. The most infamous example remains Charmaine’s pregnancy, which stretched from the first season all the way to the Christmas episodes of season five. In real-world terms, that meant viewers watched a single pregnancy unfold across nearly five years of television.

The reason? Every major event in the first five seasons has taken place within the same calendar year.

That decision, once a quiet structural choice, has had enormous consequences. Trauma, heartbreak, revelations, and life-altering losses have piled up relentlessly, leaving characters barely able to breathe before the next emotional blow lands. Nowhere is this more evident than in Mel Monroe’s journey. In less than a year of onscreen time, Mel has grieved her husband and child, fallen in love again, become pregnant, questioned the paternity of that pregnancy, lost the baby, uncovered long-buried truths about her parentage, and continued to shoulder the emotional burdens of everyone around her. The sheer density of sorrow risks turning empathy into exhaustion.

Virgin River undeniably shares DNA with classic primetime soaps. While it avoids the heightened theatrics of traditional daytime melodrama, its narrative mechanics—secret revelations, sudden tragedies, tangled romances—are unmistakably soap-adjacent. The difference is that most primetime soaps move at breakneck speed. Shows like Grey’s Anatomy, Dynasty, Gossip Girl, and Melrose Place let time stretch and bend, allowing characters to evolve across years, not weeks. Had all their major twists occurred within a single calendar year, the emotional weight would have been unbearable.

This is where Sarah Dugdale’s Lizzie becomes especially significant.

Lizzie arrived in Virgin River as a sharp-edged outsider, defensive and reckless, but Dugdale infused her with layers of insecurity, longing, and unspoken pain. Over time, Lizzie’s arc transformed into one of the show’s quiet successes—a young woman learning responsibility, love, and self-worth in a town that slowly embraced her. Yet even Lizzie has not been spared from the series’ compressed timeline. Her growth, her relationship with Denny, and now her pregnancy all unfold at a pace that threatens to rob these milestones of their full emotional impact.

With Lizzie now expecting a child heading into season six, the show faces a critical choice. Repeat the pattern, stretching another pregnancy across multiple seasons, or finally allow time to move forward in a meaningful way. Dugdale’s performance has earned the space for Lizzie’s story to breathe, to unfold with nuance rather than relentless urgency. Dragging her journey out risks turning what should be a hopeful chapter into another prolonged exercise in emotional endurance.

There is reason for cautious optimism. Season five’s Christmas episodes marked a rare and welcome shift: a genuine time jump. By advancing the story several months, the series offered its characters—and its audience—something invaluable: relief. It was one of the smartest creative decisions Virgin River has made to date. The passage of time felt organic, refreshing, and emotionally necessary.

Going forward, season six must build on that momentum. Time jumps should not be reserved for season finales or holiday specials. Life does not unfold in real time, and neither should this story. We don’t need to witness every conversation, every sleepless night, every tear shed in the aftermath of tragedy. Allowing weeks or months to pass between episodes—or even within them—would give characters space to process, heal, and grow.

Under new showrunner Patrick Sean Smith, there are signs the series is ready to evolve. Smith has already teased that season six will open with a time jump, a promising indication that the creative team recognizes the need for change. This shift could be transformative, particularly for characters whose arcs have been constrained by the frozen timeline.

Beyond pacing, season six has an opportunity to craft tighter, more varied story arcs. Season five’s wildfire episodes demonstrated how effective it can be to place characters in external crises, not just emotional ones. Those episodes injected urgency and unpredictability into the narrative without relying solely on personal tragedy. While no one is suggesting a natural disaster every season, broadening the scope of conflict would reinvigorate the series.

Importantly, not all future storylines need to revolve around loss and suffering. Smith has hinted that Doc and Hope will finally see an end to their long-running health battles. Mel and Jack are poised to focus more fully on building a home and family together. For Lizzie, this could mean embracing motherhood not as another source of fear, but as a step toward stability and fulfillment. For Sarah Dugdale, it would allow her to explore a richer emotional palette—hope, confidence, and joy—rather than constant survival mode.

At its core, Virgin River has always been about community. The sewing circle, the town gatherings, the quiet moments of shared understanding—these elements give the show its soul. For many viewers, especially those navigating grief, loneliness, or change in their own lives, Virgin River offers something rare: a sense of belonging. That should never be lost.

But community thrives not just on shared pain, but on shared healing.

By allowing time to pass, by easing the relentless compression of tragedy, Virgin River can honor both its characters and the actors who embody them. Sarah Dugdale’s legacy on the show is not just about Lizzie’s struggles, but about the promise of who she can still become. Season six has the chance to fulfill that promise—to let dreams unfold instead of remaining perpetually deferred.

If Virgin River dares to move forward, it may finally give its characters what they—and the audience—have been waiting for: room to live, not just survive.