The show’s warmth and mostly PG-nature distinguishes it from its black-comedy TV peers, like Comedy Central's Review or FX's It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia and Archer, which aim more for absurdity, amorality, and, often and to great effect, mean-spiritedness. Kimmy’s upbeat outlook isn't naiveté or stupidity so much as a survival technique she developed after being kidnapped in middle school by an old, white cult leader. This underlying bleakness in turn sets Kimmy Schmidt apart from the inherent optimism of other TV comedies like Parks and Recreation, New Girl, and Modern Family. It's a tricky premise, and the first half of the season gets off to an unwieldy start typical of a new comedy, but it certainly improves the more you watch (it helps that the entire season is dropping on Netflix March 6).

Kimmy’s not the only character trying to come to terms with her past. Her roommate, Titus, is a gay, black, former Times Square robot performer/aspiring star from Mississippi (Titus Burgess, a.k.a. D’Fwan from 30 Rock). Her new boss, Jacqueline Voorhees (played by Jane Krakowski, a.k.a. Jenna Maroney), also has a history that undercuts her current life as a rich, neglected Manhattanite housewife. A few episodes into the first season, Titus becomes convinced that he’s past his prime and no longer desirable. He walks down the street in a Huxtable-esque sweater and loudly laments, “Gay, black, and old? I won’t even know which box to check on the hate-crime form!”

Each is arguably a victim in ways that become more clear a few episodes into the show. And Kimmy Schmidt seems very interested in confronting this notion of victimhood—how does enduring something bad, change who you are? And how does it affect how the rest of the world sees you and treats you?

The show's fascination with trauma, and how optimism and laughter can arise from it, perhaps has roots in Fey’s own life. In an incident she almost never discusses, Fey was attacked by a stranger with a knife while she was in kindergarten. While it feels invasive to draw a connection like this—from the most private moments of a person’s life to their most public art—it might be particularly pertinent with Kimmy Schmidt. Fey has some understandable reasons for not wanting to draw attention to the incident: “It’s impossible to talk about it without somehow seemingly exploiting it and glorifying it,” she told Vanity Fair. Her husband, Jeff Richmond, a producer and composer for 30 Rock, also said, “I think it really informs the way she thinks about her life. When you have that kind of thing happen to you, that makes you scared of certain things, that makes you frightened of different things, your comedy comes out in a different kind of way, and it also makes you feel for people.”

Hardship—whether in the form of sickness, mental illness, a traumatic event, addiction, or bigotry—has a strong history of fueling great comedy. (Just look at Maria Bamford, Mitch Hedburg, Margaret Cho, Bill Hicks, and Robin Williams, to name a few). Strife can engender divisions between people that might not otherwise exist; humor, meanwhile, facilitates human connection. At one point, Kimmy becomes convinced someone’s misinterpreting a faux pas on her part as evidence of her insanity; despite her best efforts, she's internalized this image of herself as a nutjob forever tainted by her time in a cult. If there’s anything Kimmy wants more than to have candy for dinner, it’s to be treated like a normal person. Or to at least have a say in her own narrative.