#acceptance

This remarkable post by @hideaway311812 powerfully illuminates the fact that Will’s face-to-face confrontation with Vecna—and the psychologically manipulative monologue Vecna delivers in order to weaken and corrupt him—does not exploit only Will’s homosexuality. It also weaponizes his status as a survivor of abuse: abuse inflicted both by Vecna himself and by the society that failed to protect him.

When Will ultimately activates his powers, it is not solely the result of self-acceptance as a queer individual, nor only the acceptance of his feelings for Mike. It is also an act of reclamation. Will reclaims his agency as a victim who lost control of his own body on the very night Vecna forced that vine into his mouth. This moment marks the return of autonomy to someone from whom it was violently taken.

As I discussed in my analysis of Vecna’s speech to Will in episode 4, when Vecna shows Will a flashback meant to demonstrate that he “broke so easily,” we are shown the scene in which Will speaks to Joyce after the Mind Flayer has entered him on the baseball field. It is no secret that this entire sequence functions as a powerful allegory for sexual assault, and Will’s words afterward mirror with devastating accuracy the emotional aftermath experienced by survivors.

“I tried. I tried to make it go away. But it got me, Mum. I felt it... everywhere. Everywhere. I... I still feel it. I just want it to be over.”

Anyone who lives with post-traumatic stress resulting from such abuse—particularly when it occurs in childhood—understands precisely what Will is describing. These words capture, with painful clarity, the torture of continuing to exist while carrying that trauma within one’s body. Vecna deliberately uses this memory to reinforce his control, to convince Will that he has never truly belonged to himself—that his body and mind have been Vecna’s since that night in November 1983.

Compounding this violation is the response of the world around Will. Upon his return, instead of receiving empathy or understanding, he is met with shame and ridicule—branded with the nickname “Zombie Boy.” This is a disturbingly accurate reflection of how society so often treats survivors: by humiliating them, trivializing their pain, refusing to take them seriously, and ultimately pushing them to the margins. Before season 1, Will was bullied for being queer. By season 2, he is bullied for having survived.

This is precisely why the memories that brought Will back in season 2 are the very same memories that later allow him to activate his powers, reclaim control, and assert his agency. These three memories share something essential beyond love and joy: consent and agency.

Joyce recalls the Rainbow Ship Will drew. She explains that on his birthday, despite receiving numerous Star Wars toys—then the ultimate trend for children his age, especially for a nerd like Will—he chose instead to spend his time drawing, using every color from the box of crayons he had been given to create that Rainbow Ship. This was his choice. His desire took precedence over expectations, trends, and social norms. Will chose the simplicity of crayons to pursue his artistic passion rather than conforming to what was considered popular.

Jonathan speaks of building Castle Byers after Lonnie left. The day they created Will’s safe place—his space. A place with a password: without it, you were not allowed to enter, and even with it, you had to wait for Will to grant permission. Castle Byers is not merely a symbol of safety or childhood innocence; it is a symbol of Will’s boundaries being respected. The castle was conceived together, designed through Will’s sketches, and built collaboratively with Jonathan. It was a shared effort, born of mutual respect—but ultimately, it was Will’s decision to build it with his brother.

And finally, there is Mike.

Mike saw Will alone on the swings. He approached him—and he asked. He asked if Will wanted to be friends. Will said yes. Their very first meeting—one that irrevocably changed both of their lives and grew into a bond that would become unbreakable—was founded on the purest definition of consent. Will chose to say yes. It was his decision to allow Mike into his life. His consent.

The foundation of Will and Mike’s relationship—of their connection, their loyalty, and their love—is consent itself.

Thus, Vecna’s monologue directed at Will was not solely designed to wound him through his homosexuality or his love for Mike. It was also a deliberate attempt to reach the deepest layer of his suffering: that of a survivor still living with post-traumatic stress, a trauma that has shaped—but does not define—his being.

However, what is often overlooked is that the resurfacing of Will’s childhood memories—those moments of happiness anchored by his emotional pillars—and Robin’s words were not meant only to guide him toward queer self-acceptance. They also served to remind Will of something essential: he is not what was done to him when he was twelve. He is not the trauma he endured, nor the pain that has followed him ever since. The very core of his identity is not rooted in violence or suffering; it is rooted in love, joy, and above all in autonomy—in his individuality as a person, in his capacity to choose, in his own desires, feelings, and emotions.

Will is not a consequence of what happened to him. He has always been that joyful, carefree, passionate, and loving child. He is not broken, as Vecna insists. He was wounded—deeply, profoundly—but he is not broken. At his core, he remains the same boy he was before any of this occurred.

This is precisely why Mike’s expression as he watches Will use his powers is so deeply revealing. It is not the look of someone who suddenly falls in love because the other appears powerful or impressive. It is a look of admiration, yes—but above all, of pride. Mike is profoundly proud of Will in that exact moment. Not only because Will saves his life, but because Mike has watched Will grow since they were five years old. He has witnessed Will through his worst moments as well as his best. As the 8mm-style flashback so clearly illustrates, Mike has been by Will’s side their entire lives.

Mike has seen it all. He has seen Will doubt himself, cry, and likely suffer abuse at the hands of his father. He has seen him bullied at school and heard the town’s cruel whispers. He has watched Will endure torment and hell, carry trauma from season one onward, and slowly lose his light. He has seen Will terrified, shattered by fear, suffering agony before his eyes. He has seen his innocence and confidence fade. He has seen everything.

(Not for nothing if the cast and Duffers brothers insisted the audience to rewatch the season 2 before season 5 by the way)

And in this precise moment, Mike sees that same Will grow, bloom, awaken his powers, and—most importantly—take control. What he also sees is that Will listened to him, and in doing so, proved that Mike was right to believe in him. Mike told Will that he was capable of regaining control over the visions caused by his connection to Vecna. And that is exactly what happens.

And this is not the first time this dynamic appears. This scene directly parallels the moment in season two when Mike tells Will that he can use the “Now Memories” imposed on him by the Mind Flayer to spy on it in return—and that is exactly what Will does immediately after that conversation with Mike. I previously wrote a post analyzing this parallel in more detail here, for those who may be interested.

Will struggled to believe it himself—but he listened to Mike. He chose to trust him, to internalize his words, and to act upon them. Once again, Will made a choice: to believe Mike and to accept that Mike believes in him. He accepted the confidence, the conviction, the potential, and the power that Mike sees within him.

This is no longer a matter of “Will needs Mike.” Will has finally understood that he does not need him—he wants him. This is not necessity; it is choice. It is Will’s choice. Will does not need Mike to exist or to grow; he chooses to listen to him. He chooses to value Mike’s perspective and words. It is not “I need Mike to become myself,” but rather, “I accept what you see in me—and that belief helps me rise even further.”

Will wants Mike to live, to be saved, to remain by his side. He does not need him—he wants to be with him. Just as he never needed Mike to become his friend, but wanted him to be. This is not fate. It is not destiny. It is pure choice—pure consent.

Exactly as they both chose, together, to be part of each other’s lives.

This was never about fate or “simply dumb luck.” They built this bond themselves. Mike asked Will if he wanted to be his friend. Will said yes. And from that moment on, they constructed their relationship through years of shared conversations, daily companionship, Dungeons & Dragons, laughter, drawing and writing together, mutual support, and the shared discovery of passions—games, films, music, art. They introduced each other to new interests, nurtured each other’s curiosity, and grew side by side.

All of it was organic. Natural. Evident. And at every step, it was grounded in choice.

It has always been about consent and agency—never about fate or destiny.

In the same way, Max and Lucas have always represented a matter of choice. Max chose to listen to Lucas. She chose to believe him and to take the risk. It was never about destiny or about what they were meant to do. Never. It has always been about wanting something—about desiring it and choosing to reach for it.

It is also crucial to emphasize that the final image of episode 4—the slow-motion shot that zooms in on Will—is quite literally Mike’s point of view. In that moment, we are looking at Will through Mike’s eyes. The audience becomes Mike’s gaze. And Mike is profoundly, overwhelmingly proud of Will in that instant.

This is also precisely why that shot of Will—the one framed through Mike’s perspective—has gone viral on TikTok and across the internet, and why so many people perceive Will as extraordinarily beautiful in that moment, as if he has undergone a “glow-up.” It is because we are seeing him the way Mike sees him. Mike sees him as beautiful. That is why the shot is in slow motion; why, despite the sweat, the dirt, and the tears, Will appears so striking and ethereal. It is because Mike perceives him that way. Will is, quite simply, perfect in Mike’s eyes.

Mike is looking at him with love—not because he suddenly falls in love in the moment Will saves his life, but because, after two and a half seasons without genuine access to Mike’s point of view, we are finally granted it. For the first time since a long time, we are allowed to see how Mike sees Will. He has been deeply in love with Will for a long time, and in this moment he is so overwhelmed by emotion and pride toward the person he loves that the audience is invited to inhabit his perspective. And what we see, through that gaze, is nothing but beauty and perfection.

It is therefore no coincidence that so many heterosexual viewers—often deeply blinded by heteronormativity and by a lack of media literacy, and who had never seriously considered the possibility that Mike’s feelings for Will might be reciprocal because they had not engaged with the show’s subtext—reacted to this scene with humor and delight, interpreting it as a “turning point.” They joked that Mike was suddenly “turned on,” that he abruptly fell in love with Will because he had powers or because he looked attractive.

What they were responding to, however, was unmistakable: Mike’s awe. His emotional overwhelm. His captivated gaze as he watches Will take control—and, through that gaze, witnesses Will as beautiful. Even if their interpretation is flawed—mistaking a revelation of existing love for the sudden emergence of it—they nonetheless cannot deny the presence of those feelings. Despite their heteronormative framing, the scene makes Mike’s love visible in a way that is impossible to fully dismiss.

In the end, even through misinterpretation, the truth still surfaces.

Ultimately, Stranger Things does not frame Will Byers’ journey as a story of fate, destiny, or inevitable suffering. It frames it as a story of choice.

Vecna’s attempt to break Will is not merely an attack on his queerness or on his love for Mike, but an effort to erase his autonomy by convincing him that he is nothing more than his trauma—that his body, his mind, and his identity were permanently stolen from him in November 1983. Yet Will’s resistance does not come from denying what happened to him. It comes from remembering who he has always been beyond it.

The memories that empower Will are not random flashes of happiness; they are moments rooted in consent, agency, and self-determination. They remind him that his identity was never forged through violence, but through love, joy, creativity, and the freedom to choose. Will is not broken. He was wounded. And there is a profound difference between the two.

In reclaiming control over his visions and activating his powers, Will does more than fight Vecna—he reclaims ownership of himself. He chooses to believe in his own autonomy again. And in choosing to trust Mike’s belief in him, Will does not become dependent; he affirms his strength. Mike does not complete Will. He sees him. He believes in him. And Will, in turn, chooses to accept that belief.

This is why the gaze matters. The slow-motion shot of Will in episode 4 is not about spectacle or power—it is about being seen. Through Mike’s eyes, we witness Will not as a victim, not as a survivor reduced to his pain, but as someone whole, radiant, and deeply loved. That love is not sudden, nor is it born of circumstance. It is the result of years of mutual choice—of two boys who repeatedly chose to let each other in, to grow together, and to remain side by side.

Just as Max chose to listen to Lucas, and just as Will once chose to say yes to Mike on the playground, every defining moment in this narrative is rooted in consent. Not fate. Not destiny. Not obligation. Choice.

A few weeks ago, I posted another photo in place of one I said I had chickened out of.

This is the photo that I didn't feel entirely comfortable sharing. I am all for body acceptance and loving who I am and how I look... while at the same time, still struggle with the tummy I've found myself with as the years go by.

But sometimes you just need to face the things you're uncomfortable with as a way to accept them.

We all matter. We all have the same diagnosis. We all deserve to be treated with dignity and respect.

But we are not the same.

I can mask and might be seen as 'odd' or 'weird' in public. The students I work with are seen as 'dangerous' and 'practically little kids'.

I can go to university and work with accommodations. The students I work with likely will never live independently and a few might find jobs that support them but still pay them less than an abled worker.

I have full control of my finances. The students I work with aren't allowed to make independent financial decisions, even if capable.

If I say 'no,' I'm making a choice. The students I work with can't say 'no' without being labeled as defiant and difficult.

I can feed myself, bathe myself, and take care of myself with extreme challenges. The students I work with are unable to take care of themselves without high levels of support/one on one support.

I had an IEP in high school but was mainstreamed in classes. The students I work with take separate classes and some rarely get to interact with their abled peers.

Our experiences are fundamentally different. Higher support needs autistics will experience a specific type of ableism I never will, and can never fully understand.

Lower support needs autistics need to stop saying we understand what higher support needs autistics are going through and then present autism as only being disabling because of society/lack of acceptance because that is dangerous. We need to stop saying every autistic person is capable of everything if given the right support because that leaves out huge parts of our community who will never be able to do certain things, regardless of support.

We are worthy of existence regardless of our abilities.