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Mrs. Fletcher is slow going.

Four weeks into HBO's seven-part series and we still have big questions about Eve (Kathryn Hahn) and her sexual reawakening. We’ve watched as the isolated empty-nester explores internet porn, masturbates on the kitchen floor, flirts with an array of suitors, and battles the many obstacles facing middle-aged women and their expressions of sexuality — all to varying effect.

Mrs. Fletchercould be a brave representation of one woman’s victory over societal expectations and self-doubt; but for every step forward, Eve seems to take ten steps back. She's held down by her obligations, her insecurities, her hang-ups, and her fears.

The result is undeniably frustrating, and the end of each 30-minute episode feels like a missed opportunity. We’re not sure where this "coming of age" story is going (assuming it’s going anywhere), and the possibility that it could peter out into nothingness is palpable.

Few moments of this show are truly enjoyable, and early critics of Mrs. Fletcher, who saw all episodes before air, dismissed the project as rushed, disappointing, and, in one case, “a fascinating misfire.” By all accounts, this series will be a let-down to those who bother sticking with it.

Still, I return every Sunday to worship at the altar of Kathryn Hahn — whose sloppy sexiness and immense talent are scene-stealing throughout — and patiently await Eve’s conclusion, whatever its final form. Why? Because Hahn and Eve deserve our attention, and the flummoxing unevenness of Mrs. Fletcher is just one part of what makes this story so important.

Based on Tom Perrotta’s novel of the same name, Mrs. Fletcherrelies on painful pacing and authentic character development to drive home its message of sexual evolution. Yes, it has realistic portrayals of female arousal and pleasure — but it's the narrative surrounding those depictions that is revolutionary.

Despite what stories like Fifty Shades of Grey and The Affair tell us, female sexuality doesn’t define women or their narratives, and the road to erotic self-expression is rarely a straight line.

As viewers, we want to see Eve turn the corner, tell her sexist son and ex-husband (who treat her more like furniture than a human woman) to go to hell, then lie in bed with a partner fitting of her radiant magnetism each and every episode. We yearn for those moments of pillow-humping joy, and despite our best judgment, kind of hope she hooks up with that 19-year-old.

We want the satisfaction of Eve’s success, and we want it now.

But every week, the realities of Eve’s life (delivered in the form of meandering subplots) seem to get in the way.

She has her friends, her job, her (extremely shitty) family, and countless other things to worry about. While many have rejected these less-than-enticing detours as sloppy writing, I see them as a byproduct of authentic storytelling — the realities of chasing sexual satisfaction in a world filled with obstacles designed to desexualize you. (You can't find your inner goddess when you're busy planning the perfect Parents' Weekend.)

As much as we might want to fast-forward to Eve's big breakthrough, getting there takes time — and with so many people depending on her, it's possibility she may never arrive. For some women, a sexual reawakening isn't feasible, and seeing Eve effortlessly achieve hers would only add to the growing catalogue of clichéd sexual chronicles.

This is a unique story that, while imperfect, deserves to be told. Mrs. Fletcher seems to be frustrating because being Mrs. Fletcher is frustrating — and while that truth might not make for great TV, it's important to recognize all the same. I hope that Mrs. Fletcher sticks the landing in the next few weeks. And if it doesn't? That's fine, too. At least she tried.

Mrs. Fletcherairs on HBO Sunday nights, 10:30 p.m. ET/7:30 p.m. PT.