I had never watched Stranger Things until about a month ago.
The kids talked about it. Posters were gifted. References flew over my head. I filed it away as one of those teen shows — until I finally sat down and realized it was something else entirely. It wasn’t just fantasy. It was a bridge. Between generations. Between childhood and parenthood. Between what we remember and what we forgot we carried.
And of course that makes sense. Because that’s exactly what the best shows of the ‘80s did too. They pulled kids and parents onto the same couch and let real life themes sneak in through comedy, adventure, and heart.
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Years ago, my youngest wanted to start watching The Walking Dead. I’ve never been big on violent shows. Before watching The Godfather for the first time recently, I even asked AI to compare its violence level to The Walking Dead before committing. My tolerance for blood and guts topped out somewhere around Wile E. Coyote getting blown up by Acme dynamite, or the made-for-TV IT miniseries.
I liked comics — but more Garfield and Richie Rich than anything darker.
At first, I caught a few episodes of The Walking Dead with my wife and stepdaughter. It was graphic, sure, but eventually the zombies faded into background noise and what remained was the drama — relationships, loss, survival.
Then my youngest said she wanted to watch it too. That gave me pause.
My wife offered to rewatch it with me, and suddenly I had emotional backup as I caught up. In the end, my daughter and I were the only two in the house who finished the series. I watched once on my own, and then again with her. Yes, it was brutal at times — “Maggie, I’ll find you” still hits — but more than anything, it became ours. Something we shared. Talked about. Anticipated.
It still is.
So I’m not sure why I didn’t see the same opportunity with Stranger Things sooner. We watched IT together. We talked about the upcoming prequel. Yet somehow I missed it — until late November, when the buzz around the final season became impossible to ignore.
My daughter would wander in mid-episode. Then I started getting Instagram messages from her about Season 5. Suddenly, I was hooked.
The friendships. The ‘80s texture. Winona Ryder. Wood-panelled basements. The cars. The malls. The sense that childhood was both magical and terrifying. Eventually, I caught up, and we waited together for the Christmas episodes.
And as social media tends to do, my feeds filled with commentary — fans, critics, and haters — especially after Episode 7.
If you haven’t watched the series, consider this your spoiler warning. And if you have watched it, you know you can’t judge that scene without starting back in November 1983 — or at least July 15, 2016.
The Backlash to a Quiet Moment
The first post I saw on Twitter claimed that “fans” were furious — that the writers had ruined the show. The irony was hard to miss. The post acknowledged Stranger Things as Netflix’s most successful series, then declared it broken.
My response began simply:
“Fans?”
If you’ve actually watched this love letter to the ’80s — that Stand By Me meets IT vibe — you know Will’s sexuality was never a sudden twist. From Joyce’s early remarks to Mike’s offhand comments, the groundwork has been there from the beginning.
One of the most meaningful things about this show has been watching it with our kids. They get a glimpse into our childhoods — the music, the clothes, the malls, the arcades — much like the shows we grew up with (Diff’rent Strokes, The Facts of Life, Fresh Prince), which never shied away from serious social issues. Stranger Things does the same, just through a supernatural lens.
Robin’s coming-out arc already explored one version of that journey. Will’s is different — quieter, heavier, delayed. And for a lot of kids in the ‘80s, that was reality. This wasn’t something you talked about. It wasn’t safe. Ignoring that truth would actually sanitize the decade in ways that aren’t honest.
The ’80s were fun — but they were also isolating for many.
What many critics missed entirely is why this moment matters to the story.
Vecna doesn’t attack at random. He feeds on vulnerability. From Episode 1, Will has been a target because of the pain he carries — fear, isolation, the things left unsaid. That’s how the villain works.
By finally releasing that weight, Will removes Vecna’s leverage. He enters the final battle knowing — without doubt — that the people who matter most are there for him. That isn’t politics. That’s character resolution.
I’d gladly revisit the ’80s — just with 2025’s understanding that love is love, across all lines.
My kids noticed something else right away: they’re rooting for Will. What resonated wasn’t shock or spectacle — it was that his friendship with Mike holds. Mike remains his biggest supporter. He still loves El exactly as we’ve always known. Showing loyalty instead of fracture felt intentional. And hopeful.
Because if we’re honest about the actual ‘80s, distance might have been the more realistic outcome. Showing something better isn’t rewriting history — it’s imagining growth. And that’s kind of the point.
Acceptance Over Romance
Another post later clarified the backlash: some fans were angry that Will and Mike didn’t end up together — that Mike wasn’t secretly gay too.
I know my own girls are Team Byler. But I challenged them with something else.
In a story set in the ’80s, the more powerful outcome may not be romance at all — it’s unconditional love and acceptance from family and friends.
And yes, I understand the skepticism. In recent years, some themes have felt forced, heavy-handed, or disconnected from story. That reaction isn’t imaginary. But this moment wasn’t dropped in from nowhere. It’s been building since Season 1. Leaving Will’s arc unresolved would have been dishonest with the character they created.
What worked was how it was handled. Quiet. Earned. Grounded in character.
At this point, whatever the final episode gives us, I trust the Duffer Brothers. They’ve consistently balanced nostalgia without hollow fan service, imaginative worlds without losing emotional grounding, and social themes that emerge from story — not the other way around.
That’s the difference between storytelling that earns trust and storytelling that demands it.
Stepping Inside the Room
Some of the backlash — from all sides — feels like a refusal to step inside the moment.
We stay outside. Watching. Judging. Treating an intimate family scene like content to be scored instead of a room we’re meant to enter.
But Stranger Things has never asked us to be bystanders. We’re meant to pull up a chair and listen. To remember these characters. Because in that moment, they aren’t symbols. They’re people. The enemy is real. The fear is real. And it’s 1987.
When we hide our deepest truths, we become vulnerable — not just in fantasy, but in real life. That’s the real Vecna. And many people watching that scene know exactly what that feels like.
If you haven’t watched the scene — or if you watched it through the noise — this is the moment I’m talking about.
My Own Weight
Which brings me back to the title.
The weight I’ve carried wasn’t about sexuality. It was about finally being honest about who I am at my core — about beliefs, doubts, and truths I’d kept buried because exposing them came at a cost. And it did. I lost friendships. Relationships strained. I felt exposed.
But something else happened, too. The weight lifted.
Letting go of what I was hiding didn’t solve everything, but it gave me something I didn’t have before — strength. Not the loud kind. The steady kind. The kind that comes from no longer fighting yourself.
Watching Will, I felt seen.
Not because our stories are the same, but because the moment was. The release. The fear. The risk. And the quiet relief that comes when the people who matter most are still there.
That moment wasn’t just his. It became ours. And if it made some people uncomfortable, that discomfort wasn’t Will’s to carry. It was ours.
Because the truth is this: what preys on us most often feeds on what we hide. And the only real defense against that is vulnerability — held by people who love us.
And maybe that’s how we save more than just Hawkins.
Love. Acceptance. Community. Hope.
There’s also a reason this scene lands the way it does. Noah Schnapp later spoke about why it mattered to him — and why it felt closer to a real coming out than the way the world learned about his own.
One last thing.
While editing this, I opened Spotify to play music from Stranger Things. This song came up on its own. It felt like the right place to leave things.
‘80s Actors We Loved in the Stranger Things Universe
The show features several prominent actors from ‘80s pop culture. The creators intentionally cast them as an homage to the classic films that inspired the series.
The primary “faces” from the ‘80s featured in the main cast or significant recurring roles include:
- Winona Ryder: Known for iconic ‘80s films like Beetlejuice and Heathers, she plays the main character Joyce Byers.
- Sean Astin: Famous for his lead role as Mikey Walsh in the 1985 classic adventure film The Goonies, he appeared as the beloved character Bob Newby in Season 2.
- Paul Reiser: Known for his roles in ‘80s hits such as Aliens and Beverly Hills Cop, he played Dr. Sam Owens starting in Season 2.
- Robert Englund: The actor famous for portraying the horror icon Freddy Krueger in the A Nightmare on Elm Street series, he appeared in Season 4 as the disturbed character Victor Creel.
- Cary Elwes: Known for his leading roles in the ‘80s films The Princess Bride and Glory, he portrayed Mayor Larry Kline in Season 3.
- Matthew Modine: Known for his role in Stanley Kubrick’s 1987 Vietnam War film Full Metal Jacket, he played the recurring character Dr. Martin Brenner.
- Linda Hamilton: Best known for her iconic role as Sarah Connor in The Terminator franchise (1984, 1991), she has been cast in the upcoming fifth and final season.