Heartstopper helped me rewrite the loneliness of my own queer coming-of-age
The wholesome Netflix show isn’t just for teens – it’s for anyone looking to rewrite the trauma of adolescent years filled with shame, loneliness and bullying.
Words by Jamie Windust
As someone who identifies as a cynic first, queer second it will come as no surprise that it took me at least 15 minutes to finally decide to press play on the first series of Netflix hit Heartstopper. Not because I doubted it would be good, but because my hard-wired British cynicism had already clouded my vision. Initially, I imagined it would be a saccharine soap, full of sweet teens moaning about not being able to go to prom. In reality, the show proved to be full of heart – and, for me, was retroactively healing.
On the surface the premise of Alice Oseman’s series of graphic novels is familiar territory for the teen market: a gaggle of adolescents coming-of-age, figuring out who they are amidst the trials and tribulations of puberty. But as I pressed play, watching with my arms folded, my pessimistic outlook faded – only to be gently replaced with a feeling of deep sadness and grief. There was a yearning for shows like Heartstopper, and the invaluable queer representation they provide, to have been there for me when I was at school.
But the feeling went deeper than that, it was also a longing for my own inner child to have the opportunity to be a part of the joyful, inclusive Heartstopper gang. To hang out with Charlie and his friends. To have the support of Jenny. To enjoy the safety that Nick gives Charlie throughout.
The world Oseman has created isn’t just for today’s teenagers navigating high school for the first time. It’s also for twenty-somethings like me, and the generations before that. For us, being able to watch a show filled with trans, gay, bi, lesbian and ace folks being accepted for their identity feels like a healthy exhale of relief. It’s a way to re-write the trauma that so many of us experienced throughout adolescent years filled with shame, loneliness and bullying.
Looking back to 2011, when I was Charlie’s age, the only exciting thing in my life was the One Direction fan account I ran on Twitter. Every day, I would run home, do my paper round and visit the corner shop to purchase the exact same three items: a bottle of Vimto, a packet of custard creams and a bar of Galaxy. After finishing my round, I’d watch the TV (which, due to it being 2011, only had four channels) and lose myself in the pixels.
Why have I just divulged my daily routine with you from over a decade ago? Because it’s synonymous with the isolation that I experienced as a young queer kid. I didn’t have any friends and only really cared about the moment I could sneak upstairs and hide in my bedroom, watching videos of Harry Styles and dunking endless biscuits into lukewarm cups of tea. I wasn’t ‘out’, but rumblings that I was gay had been going on since we started ‘big school’ two years prior. My Monday to Friday became a lot less about learning and a lot more about avoiding the boys who would accuse me of being different.
What Heartstopper does, with such intelligence and care, is connect that inner child of mine to the fictional world of Charlie Spring. I can see myself in him so intently that whatever he is feeling, I feel too. When Charlie is teased or bullied, I feel it with a rawness that only queer kids can relate to. It doesn’t shy away from the reality of being a young queer kid at school, whilst including pockets of lightness that provided audiences like me with hope. Hope that things can be different, but also a hope tinged with sadness – a window into what our own pasts could’ve been like if we were born in a different place or time.
Young people today have stories to connect with which affirm their experiences beyond the ‘it gets better’ cliché. The Heartstopper gang provides isolated teens with role models and friends in a mainstream form that previous generations just didn’t have access to. Young people can see themselves in characters like Nick, or Jenny or Tara, but can also see the supportive and diverse friends they might be missing in their real lives – creating a fictional chosen family bestowed to them by Oseman and Netflix.
As an adult, watching the show made me really reckon with what my support network looks like right now. Charlie’s sister Jenny is a fierce and loving protector and confidante – forcing me to wonder if I have someone like that in my corner. Seeing their bond play on screen reminded me that it’s never too late to find your chosen family. Moreover, for queer people like me who are watching the show in their late 20s, Heartstopper is a chance to relive a childhood full of dismissal and silence by instead filling it with on screen connection and love.
So, as Charlie and the gang continue to grapple with the trials and tribulations of growing up in this third series, I feel intrigued to see what comes up for me emotionally. From the highs and lows, I am invested in what happens to the characters because they have become something of a surrogate friend group. A group that I would’ve loved to have in my real youth, but that I care for as if they are real. A group that I imagine would’ve embraced me with open arms back in the days of 2011.