Happy New Year, reader.

Did you feel the shift in the world as the clock struck midnight and we made our leap back up to the top of the calendar? Did you feel the shared celebrations and the quiet hope blossoming in the air? The hope that blooms from the potential a new year holds, giving us something to look forward to. It seems to start everything over – just like the first drops of rain, the new year washes away the dust and weight of everything before.

This cleansing is something I always look forward to, along with millions of other people who let hope be a guide in their lives. It’s more of a symbolic washing away, really, rather than a physical one. But that doesn’t diminish its weight and purpose to me. If there’s one thing you should know about me: I’m a sucker for collective effervescence (a term I felt long before I just learned the name of it last year). It’s the sociological term for the powerful shared feeling of energy, unity, and sacredness that forms when people gather for a common purpose. Think concerts, sports games, rallies, religious rituals, etc.

The reason these gatherings feel so emotionally charged and offer a strong sense of connection with other people is because of the common goals we all share in those moments, creating shared emotions between us. As someone who strongly values community in this way and has felt how addictive this can be, I often seek out even slight versions of this in the small moments of day-to-day life, like when a group of strangers stops to enjoy a street performer playing a familiar song.

Do you know another area in our culture where this concept is not only present but has become a major catalyst for the success of the industry? Consumable media. Primarily, film, movies, and TV shows…maybe you can see where this is going.

At the end of 2025, a show spanning over the course of a decade saw what was to be its epic conclusion. Stranger Things aired its 2-hr long, grand finale on December 31^st, 2025 – the night of New Year’s Eve. The show was wildly successful from the start and remained a loved franchise despite the time off the screen it was forced to take due to the pandemic. The mere fact that it came back after that period and was so well received upon its return, even when others couldn’t seem to survive those events, was an incredible feat in itself. All due credit goes out to the writers, producers, cast, and crew of that show who all worked tirelessly to keep the magic of it alive. It was something that connected millions of people for its duration on screen, bringing together a community who all eagerly awaited its ending with a bittersweet tone.

And like everyone who waited years to see the epic conclusion to one of their favorite series, to say I was disappointed with what we were given would be a great understatement. I diligently waited to see what would become of our group of misfit kids fighting an evil that their peers would go their whole lives without knowing existed. I wanted justice. I wanted an imbalance to find its stability. I wanted the kind of heartbreak that cracks you open emotionally but reminds you of the cost of fighting for what truly matters. I wanted our heroes to find their own kind of peace while remembering the sacrifices along the way it took to get there. I, like so many of my fellow watchers, wanted closure.

What we received, however, was anything but.

What we received was thoughtlessness. Carelessness.

We were handed unorganized writing and an ending whose quality was extraordinarily inconsistent with the rest of the show we enjoyed over the years.

We received far less than what we deserved.

I felt cheated – I felt betrayed. I felt no closure and no continuity that made me happy overall for the outcomes of our beloved group of nerdy friends. I’ve related to all the content I’ve been seeing online of others as equally confused and unsatisfied as I am. I’ve listened to their reasons, agreed with their points, and even tried to see it from the view of those who loved the ending (though it’s never my intention to attack someone for merely having an opinion, I will issue a warning to those who think it’s a good idea to defend their argument by belittling the intelligence of others – “You just didn’t understand it,” or “you’re obviously not a true fan of the show,” are not valid reasons to invalidate the feelings of those who didn’t like the outcome). Show me evidence on how or why you feel the ending was good, and I will take into account what you’ve given me to consider. Otherwise, do not dismiss views by simply telling us we were too dumb or oblivious to understand them.

It is now that I should warn you that this post does contain spoilers for this show; if you haven’t watched it yet, I encourage you to watch the ending and form your own opinions about it before continuing to read mine.

I see myself as someone who is strongly guided by emotion in my life. Nearly all my initial thoughts and reactions to situations I find myself in are highly emotional ones. But I also welcome logic, understanding, and reason. This is why I take time to analyze the scenario I was in and think of the how and why I felt the way I did. This process has helped me understand myself and how I relate to others. I like to think I have a strong comprehension of my motivations, thoughts, and reasoning.

But at first glance, I could not understand why I felt so frustrated with this finale, and I sought to clarify my own dissatisfaction.

It was, by all accounts, the textbook definition of “good” ending. The main characters go into battle, face some minor challenges that they overcome, fight against the main evil, and win. They go on to live their lives, and we are shown much happier times that lie ahead of them. They continue their lives in normalcy, without the evil lurking over them any longer. A very good ending indeed.

So why did it leave so many people upset, including myself? If it was such a happy ending, why didn’t it resonate with audiences that way?

As I watched videos online of fans who were creating their own theories of a “secret” ending episode to be revealed later, I was reminded of a simple concept I learned in an intro to film class I took for general ed credits: the suspension of disbelief. This concept is something you’ve probably never really thought much about, despite actively participating in it when watching a movie or show. It’s the quiet, unspoken agreement between storyteller and viewer that says the viewer will suspend the facts they know to be true or not true to feel the full emotional weight of the storyteller’s world and tales.

As the viewers, we know dragons aren’t real. But we willingly ignore that reality to feel the full impact of the story the way it’s intended to be. In turn, the author gives us a story that is balanced, intentional, and consistent with its own rules.

This is a relationship of equal give and take. Make no mistake: the audience’s role in it may be louder, more noticeable at first glance, but the weight of the authors’ end of the deal is just as heavy with importance. It’s quieter and tucked further behind the curtain than we’re able to see, but holds the key to how this relationship ends and is remembered. Sometimes, the audience isn’t even fully aware of their expectations of the storyteller to honor the course of this relationship until something goes wrong. Which, unfortunately for the Duffer Brothers, is what happened here.

When we commit to something like a show for 10 years, an invisible contract is signed that says:

“I’ll give you my time, loyalty, emotions, and trust. In turn, you’ll give me an ending that honors the journey.”

Mind you, not a “happy” ending.

Not a “sad” ending.

One that feels earned; deserving of the time we took from our lives becoming invested in this story.

This is where Stranger Things stumbled.

This was a show that rattled you to the bones from the beginning. From Barb’s horrific death in the very first season to the slow descent into madness we watched Joyce go through, trying desperately to save her son trapped in another world she didn’t understand. From the unlikely protagonist group of 10-12-year-old kids tasked with saving us and who faced merciless evils, there was one universal truth we all came to expect: this show doesn’t hold its punches.

We were introduced to countless side characters who were given their own redemption arcs and who we easily fell in love with, hoping they’d join the main characters in the fight against Henry, only for them to be violently ripped apart at the hands of the villain. The looks of devastation, pain, and survivor’s guilt etched into our hero’s faces were a constant reminder to us as the audience that winning a war does not come without great sacrifice and that the final victory would demand the greatest cost of all.

So, naturally, coming into the finale of the show, the common thought among the Stranger Things community was, who were they willing to sacrifice in the end? I saw many people begging for it to be certain characters while sparing others, but we all knew what a final episode could mean. The last stop: the end of the story…no one was safe anymore.

I expected the kind of pain and heartache I had watched and felt throughout all previous seasons to be amplified under the weight of the last episode. I knew I wasn’t going to be happy with whatever outcome, because I know one other simple truth of film: to make an impact, you must hit the viewer where it hurts. This meant most likely ending one of the characters that audiences were calling to spare. I was prepared for that, whoever it might be.

What I did not expect was the death of a side character introduced only once before to suddenly resurface halfway through the final season (Kali), and the half-expected death of the main character (El) who unintentionally started the chaos, to be the final resolution, failing to meet the expectations the show itself had taught us to hold.

We were taught through the rules of this world that sacrifice matters, danger has weight, consequences are important, and that victory is costly – the deaths of Bob, Billie, and Eddie are all prime examples of these lessons.

We were teased with the deaths of a couple of main characters who would have crumbled us to see – Max and Steve – but never were given commitment to those endings, further enforcing how risky and costly the actual ending would be.

But where was the risk, truly?

Our heroes faced impossible struggles that not only did they somehow overcome every time with little issue, but we didn’t even get to see how they surmounted some of the challenges. How on Earth did they supposedly scale a cliff-face in the span of maybe a minute, loaded with gear, to help Eleven face off against Henry and the Mind Flayer?

Where was the danger when all the terrifying, nearly undefeatable monsters we had been shown throughout the years were suddenly nowhere to be found during the most crucial battle of the show?

Where were the consequences of Nancy carelessly shooting at a mass of unidentifiable energy in an uncharacteristic fit of naivety?

Where is the weight of the cost of death in a side character whose reintroduction carried little emotional groundwork, or the completely unnecessary death of Eleven that contributed nothing to the plot of the story once Henry was dead?

The final battle the entire show led up to, only lasted around 20 minutes long, according to Google (though I personally feel like that’s a generous assessment of the timeframe of the actual fight against Henry). The epilogue of the characters after the fight lasted far longer than it should have and offered scenes of awkward dialogue to fill in the silences between them, mixed in with even more unanswered questions, as it seemed new hints were dropped that ultimately led to nothing. We listened; we paid attention. We put two and two together, over and over again. We followed the rules the show taught us about perception of reality and paying attention to small changes in details because it meant something greater was happening.

It trained us too well, it would seem, as the amount of effort we put into anticipating and absorbing the ending was greatly mismatched to the level of story we received. An imbalance of effort, I would call this.

The storytellers made us care about the rules, the hard truths we’d come to accept over the years, and then completely disregarded them when they needed to matter most. We did our part as the audience – we watched and learned. The writers abandoned their role in the relationship. They broke the contract that we both spent years building together.

That’s why it’s frustrating.

That’s why we’re upset.

Not because we wanted to actually see people die or see them burdened with trauma that they would carry on with them the rest of their lives. But because we wanted that relationship that we put so much effort into to matter. And in the end, we were shown it didn’t.

Instead of the depth we were promised, we were delivered convenience.

Over the years, they benefited from our vulnerability but rushed the final goodbye without earning it.

We were told time and time again, “we care,” but were not shown that when it mattered most.

When the final battle felt easier than all previous ones before it, the threat stopped feeling real – our suspension of disbelief cracked.

The characters survived extreme circumstances but weren’t fundamentally changed by them. We were given emotional whiplash. Our psyche expects, “If they live through this, something inside of them must die or evolve.”

The ending of a group of friends leaving their hometown and pursuing life options in separate cities feels too ordinary, too hollow, measured against what they survived.

Ten years of investment and tension requires necessary space to exhale and release. Instead, the show resolved massive arcs quickly, minimized the fallout of a major event, and glossed over the emotional aftermath. It robbed the audience of the processing time where emotional fulfillment and closure live.

Suspension of disbelief, while hidden in the details, is important not because it’s about believing monsters exist, but because it’s about believing three things:

1. The story understands itself
2. The writers understand us
3. The ending respects the weight of what came before

People are upset because that alignment was thrown off. The spell was broken, and the years of dedication, emotional investment, and support we poured into the show suddenly felt worthless. And when unresolved emotional investment doesn’t disappear, it looks for somewhere else to go. So, it becomes dissection, anger, essays, memes, and the hundreds of videos of upset viewers recounting their own feelings and experiences with the heartache of how much better the ending could have been.

Human psychology is such a fascinating and powerful thing, isn’t it? In one night, a show that was highly regarded by its followers for so long fell from its pedestal and now finds itself ranked among others of its kind – the ones that were amazing through and through but mostly remembered for how terrible the endings were (Game of Thrones, I’m looking at you).

Had the secret ending been a reality, we would be talking about this show in a much different context. But as of writing this, the alleged timeframe for that “other finale” has come and passed, and the show remains the same. Maybe we have simply gotten the date for the real finale wrong, or perhaps that was truly the end and we must now face the reality of what’s left to do: move on.

There will be another franchise that comes along and grabs our attention from the loss we feel at this one, anyway. There always is.

And if anything good could come from the outcome of this show, let it be this:

The ending wasn’t what we wanted, and that disappointment stings. But the sting itself is also important. It reminds us that we felt; that we cared enough to be hurt. We were in this together, as a community, and we shared the hopes and heartbreaks collectively. And maybe that’s why stories like this stay with us long after they end: not because they’re perfect, but because they made us feel.