How the Stranger Things finale betrays the show’s most important character

This article contains major spoilers for the series finale of “Stranger Things.”

When “Stranger Things” debuted in 2016, it’s unlikely that Netflix or the Duffer Brothers anticipated the global phenomenon the series would become. The advent of streaming had effectively brought monoculture to its knees, but “Stranger Things” was proof positive that with a compelling story and characters for audiences to care about, streaming had the ability to shape cultural conversations. And a major contributor to this explosion in popularity is how quickly people have become attached to Eleven (Millie Bobby Brown), the little girl with supernatural powers and a love of Eggo waffles.

But like the telekinetic women who preceded her (Carrie White in “Carrie” and Matilda Wormwood in “Matilda”), Eleven’s story is rooted in tragedy and abuse. Born Jane Ives, her powers were the result of her mother treating her as an MKUltra experiment during pregnancy. Jane was then kidnapped after birth and spent her formative years experimenting at Hawkins National Laboratory while being denied access to the outside world. Even after escaping the lab, she was continually hunted by the US government, forced to save humanity from the nightmarish creatures of the Upside Down, and never knew a moment of peace. This is why the decision to have her sacrifice herself (apparently permanently) in the finale, it’s such a betrayal of the character.

The show’s co-creator, Ross Duffer, said Netflix“She represents magic in many ways and the magic of childhood. In order for our characters to move forward and the story of Hawkins and the Upside Down to end, Eleven had to leave.” This line gives the game away. How can you treat a character like a human when you’re too busy treating them like a plot device?

“Life has been so unfair to you,” says Jim Hopper (David Harbour), Jane’s surrogate father, when he learns of her plan to sacrifice himself to save the world. These are powerful words coming from the only father figure who hasn’t dedicated his life to torturing her, but they feel hollow when they serve as a prelude to yet more another example of a young woman sacrificing herself so that the rest of the world can return to normal. It’s bad enough that this happens in fictional stories, but this demand for self-sacrifice is deeply rooted in the real societal expectations of women. No amount of Jane/Eleven bringing up the name of Hopper’s daughter, who died of cancer, saying, “She didn’t have a choice to make, but I did,” suddenly makes her decision to die for the greater good rooted in autonomy. Because Jane/Eleven in fact, I have no choice here.

The implication is that without her sacrifice, the U.S. government would have continued to hunt her and her friends forever, which is… a possibility, sure, but it’s also logic that ignores the fact that this is a series about alternate dimensions, wormholes, and kids who can drive cars with their minds. Nothing in “Stranger Things” is grounded in reality. There were so many paths for this series to take that allowed all the characters to have a happy ending and move beyond the final years without it needing to come at the expense of Jane/Eleven. continue being exiled and forced to travel the world alone. Instead, a young woman who has known only suffering, isolation, and manipulation willingly abandons a family and community that loves her under the guise of “breaking the cycle.”

Jane/Eleven’s life was defined by secrecy and suffering from the moment she was born, and when she finally found safety, family, and belonging, the narrative stripped it all away again with the “It’s my choice” safety line thrown in to silence anyone who has a problem with that. Forcing her to break the cycle of her life allows those who put her there in the first place (namely the government) to avoid any responsibility for what they did and the harm they caused. This kind of ending suggests that the only way for her to escape institutional and governmental control is to withdraw completely. The writing desperately tries to present her choice as courageous and selfless, but in reality it leaves her exactly where she started: alone.

This pattern repeats itself endlessly in the narration. Female characters are denied the right to both love and fulfillment; they must be independent or selfless, or both, and never allowed to have everything they have earned. Suggesting that Eleven “represents the magic of childhood” and that she “was always going to disappear” makes her suffering mere fodder for developing the other characters, distilling the series’ most important character into plot convenience. Mike Wheeler (Finn Wolfhard) delivers a Dungeons & Dragons epilogue implying that she faked her death and left the grid. His story is supposed have hope, but that means either Mike and the rest of the crew are cool with their friend who never wants to see them again, or they choose to lie to themselves about their friend dying to get out. Both results are null.

Eleven deserved a life with those who loved her and a chance at the normalcy she craved, and you will never convince me that this was her happy ending.