I just finished watching the latest installment of Stranger Things, the penultimate episode where everything is supposed to come together. The plot is intense: the groups are converging, the Upside Down is bleeding into reality, and the stakes couldn’t be higher.
It ends with the classic 80s trope we’ve come to expect. Dustin Henderson lays out an elaborate scheme to bring down Vecna, the big bad, based on a few scribbles in a journal. He clarifies, “If my theory is correct, then the bridge collapses.“
And sure, we accept that. When the fate of mankind hangs in the balance, why not just go with a random theory straight out of a teenager’s brain? We’ve suspended our disbelief this long; we trust the kid with the walkie-talkie more than the US military. That’s the fun of the genre.
But then, the episode took a turn that snapped my suspension of disbelief in half.
The Misplaced Monologue
As the episode closes, it becomes clear that all hope rests on Will Byers. He has the True Sight—the psychic connection to Vecna that will allow the group to track him and bring the whole thing down. But before he embarks on this treacherous journey, the writers decided he needed to “dig deep” for inner strength.
In a scene that felt strategically scripted to check a box rather than serve the story, Will reflects on his friends and his life, and finally drops the bomb: “I don’t like girls.”
Apparently, in the end, what really gives us the inner strength to fight interdimensional demons is a declaration of our sexuality. And frankly? That is bizarre.
Since When Is Orientation a Superpower?
Sexual tension in sci-fi is not a new thing. We’ve seen it in Enemy Mine, Starman, Cocoon, and Species. Sometimes it works, but often—like in Species—it’s gratuitous. But this specific nod to homosexuality felt entirely irrelevant to the plot. It was no more “off-script” than if Iron Man had paused right before the final snap in Avengers: Endgame to declare his undying love for Thor.
Who a character wants to sleep with is simply not an empowering amulet against evil. It doesn’t make them stronger, faster, or more psychic. Making it the focal point of a crescendo moment makes the movie (or show) feel cringy and manufactured. It pulled me out of the story so aggressively that I likely won’t watch the finale.
Hollywood vs. Reality
The disconnect between Hollywood’s obsession with identity and actual human connection became even clearer to me after the show.
I had just come from a dinner with friends and family. It was a fantastic time—telling stories, catching up, and laughing. In that room, the reality of modern life was present: there were young adults struggling with their sexuality, and there were those who have transitioned their gender.
And ironically? It didn’t come up once.
Hollywood seems hellbent on making sexuality the focal point of existence, the lens through which every action must be viewed. But in reality, relationships transcend sexuality by thousands of miles. When I hugged my transgender nephews goodbye, I didn’t have a laundry list of questions that needed answering. I didn’t need a declaration of their identity to feel a connection. We were just family.
Love, Acceptance, and Respect
A pastor once told me something that has stuck with me: “People just want love, acceptance, or respect. It does not need to be all three.”
That simple triad is how the real world functions. We can respect someone’s journey without understanding it. We can love someone without needing their sexuality to be the headline of every conversation.
Hollywood tries to force us to do all three, all the time, at the highest volume, even when the world is ending. But real strength doesn’t come from announcing who you are attracted to; it comes from the quiet, transcendent bonds we form with people—regardless of the labels.