There’s an aimlessness to Season 3 of Insecure that puts it at odds with the propulsion of the first two seasons. In the first year of the show, Issa (Issa Rae) and Molly (Yvonne Orji) were breaking the molds of their youthful coping mechanisms; by the second season, they’d started the process of reshaping themselves, only to discover the task was much bigger than it seemed. The third season starts with both characters at loose ends: Issa is living in Daniel’s apartment (but not sleeping with him, she repeatedly assures her friends) and driving for Lyft to supplement her income, while Molly’s on an overseas vacation, making the most of her time between jobs. Both are bemused by the lull that comes from slow growth; they’re better off than where they were, but still not really where they want to be.

Despite a lot of fanfare around the idea of the black sitcom in recent years, there still aren’t all that many of them. (There are a few new offerings to add to that chart from the last four years, but the total still accounts for just a handful of shows in an era that is currently fielding the highest number of scripted television shows, ever.) Black-ish, still running on ABC, is the most notable foray into the form in decades, but it fittingly maintains the paces and juvenile setups of a family sitcom on a broadcast network. Insecure, on HBO, is in a bizarre position: it’s both one of the only black sitcoms currently airing and in a pay-cable niche that presents it as adult, exclusive, and “prestigious,” which is usually just code for “expensive.”

In a way, the characters of Insecure are in a similar position: they are not securely ensconced in success, but they are not scraping together a life, either. Issa might be sick of her job and unable to avoid rent—but she’s educated, sensitive, and learning what she wants out of relationships. Molly is still struggling to land a man that meets her standards, but she’s arcing through a career trajectory that just landed her an office with a view. The four episodes released to critics from the third season present Issa and Molly in a transitional state—bridging the gap between having nothing and having it all, with all the intentional striving and incremental progress that suggests. Several times, Issa invokes the narrative of Beyoncé Knowles as guidance and inspiration, but—because we can’t all be as gifted as the queen—that image of success and satisfaction is only part of what ultimately propels Issa forward.

As such, this season reads as a primer for surviving a secondary stage of life—after coming-of-age, before mid-life crisis. Molly’s entrance into another law firm forces her to start over, rebuilding her professional networks and tapping into the office politics of a new environment. And Issa, sleeping on Daniel’s couch, is in the limbo of being entangled with an ex even though she know’s that’s a bad idea—even though he’s very handsome when he’s beatboxing in her ear. The show slots into a gap that so many ambitious young people fall into—the unspoken truths, red tape, and complicated skills that stall strivers who do not have the same access to family knowledge, professional networks, safety nets, or inheritances as some of their peers.

As much as this show focuses on the pecuniary nuts and bolts of “making it,” Insecure also cherishes the beauty of the everyday in its every gorgeous frame. The show toggles between devastatingly funny and quietly poignant with unflappable ease, and its performances and music direction continue to be some of the very best on television.

And like any determined up-and-comer perched on the edge of success, Insecure is constantly mindful of what it’s come from. Last season, the series featured scenes from an amusing fake TV soap that manufactured drama out of the relationships between slaves and their owners in the antebellum South. This season, it’s dreamed up a legacy black sitcom—a faux Living Single—that plays like comfort food in the background of various characters’ everyday lives. It’s a clever little interplay between the past and present of this genre—and points to a future where Insecure, or a show like it, will be the cultural touchstone and humane lifeline that carries a whole class of people forward.