How Hunter Schafer Saved My Life
I’m far from the only Gen Z-er to express their enchantment with Euphoria, but can you really blame us? HBO’s ratings juggernaut – which has seen its popularity skyrocket since the start of Season 2 – is, in many ways, the defining work of art of our age group: an incisive, in-depth look at the trials and tribulations of today’s teens that doesn’t just speak on our behalf but allows us to share our own stories, depicting our darkest and often dismissed difficulties without veering into excessive exaggeration or exploitation. Certain critiques sure are fair, especially in regards to this latest string of episodes (some stars’ storylines are stronger than others, specific subplots can occasionally be a bit too overblown, etc.), but, at the end of the day, these conflicted characters are all so uniquely compelling and wonderfully well-realized – and not to mention unlike any others currently on television – that we always keep coming back for more, finding ourselves wholly invested in their well-being. As Nika King’s Leslie and Storm Reid’s Gia seek to save Zendaya’s Rue from her drug addiction, we too feel like a member of their family, hoping against hope that Rue will find the strength within to shake her demons once and for all. As Alexa Demie’s Maddy tearfully pleads for Sydney Sweeney’s Cassie to see the light and abandon her attraction to Jacob Elordi’s Nate lest she suffer the same abuse she did, we feel her affecting and authentic anguish deep in our hearts, sharing her hurt as she’s forced to witness that monster of a man manipulate one of the people she loves most in the world, as if inflicting pain on her wasn’t enough. And so on and so forth.
What makes the love for Euphoria so widespread is its ability to offer audiences of any background and all walks of life a character to identify with. From Maude Apatow’s Lexi – a stand-in for all who live in the shadows of more praised/preferred older siblings, but especially young women who share her situation and similarly doubt themselves socially or sexually – to Barbie Ferreira’s Kat – who offers a thrilling contemporary take on the tired “fat best friend” trope that sees a high schooler wholeheartedly embracing her sexuality in spite of what some may say about her weight – and so many more, writer/director Sam Levinson truly leaves no stone unturned when it comes to populating the halls of East Highland, never shying away from any topic or adolescent turmoil no matter how “taboo.” It’s futile to compare and contrast these characters to attempt to discern which arc feels “freshest” in modern mainstream entertainment (given how powerful and progressive each actor’s plotline proves to be), but it’s hard to overstate the significance of Hunter Schafer’s Jules in particular – a transgender female teen, played by a true trans actress to boot, who comes to represent one of the first times such a perspective has ever been shared in this space. And, for many young trans women like myself who long struggled to sort through the intricacies of their identities while simultaneously trying to make sense of the constant mixed messaging from the media about the trans community, her complex, captivating, and comforting characterization simply saved our lives.
I grew up in Elkhorn, Nebraska for the entirety of my young life – a small, sheltered town on the western edge of Omaha that, while annexed in 2007, still retained its “small town” roots throughout the time I lived there, both the good (the compassionate neighborly camaraderie and inspiriting impression that “everybody knew everybody”) and the bad (the perpetuation of white, male, straight, cis, Christian, and Republican perspectives above all others). This isn’t to say that there weren’t any dissenting voices to this misguided majority – my thoughtful teachers were some of my sole saving graces – but it was apparent who ruled the roost in Elkhorn, and this wasn’t something to be disputed. Where my home was located specifically allowed me to have one foot in Omaha proper and one in Elkhorn, but as someone who attended Elkhorn Public Schools from kindergarten to 12th grade, it was clear what my real “community” was, and they were my means to learning the “ways of the world.”
Every time I’ve come out as trans, the friend or family member I’m conversing with never fails to immediately ask me, “When did you know?” – and to be frank, it’s a question I’ve always struggled to answer, as there wasn’t some sudden “a ha!” moment during which I shed the “disguise” of my cisness and took up this trans “label.” As long as I’ve been alive, I’ve felt like and known I was a woman – I just didn’t have the words to say so. From as early as kindergarten, I modeled myself after the women in my life – most prominently, my mother – and took on the roles of mom or wife at play time, making meals for my “family,” wearing dresses, doing my hair, and the like. Back then, this wasn’t yet “cause for concern,” as neither me nor my peers were conditioned enough to perceive this as “abnormal.” However, only when I started to profess innocuous crushes on male classmates or act amorously around them – something I never saw as “shameful,” given how closely I aligned myself with my girl friends and how they behaved as such as well – was my behavior deemed a “distraction,” with my preoccupation with boys being blown out of proportion and even brought up to my parents, prompting brutal bullying that would plague me all throughout elementary school.
From then on, through first to fifth grade, I quickly had to learn to conceal my femininity and my burgeoning feelings for certain male classmates lest I confirm the rumors that I was a “queer,” and though those accusations were always still floating around, I was eventually able to “play the part” to the best of my abilities, and upon entering middle school, I had even convinced myself that I was a “straight man,” attempting to date female friends I felt deeply for emotionally, despite never harboring the romantic interest they desired. And yet, in spite of shaking most of the social torment, I had never been more miserable, finding that upholding this facade was practically a full-time job. I ended up heading to high school single and in this surreal space where I felt gender-less and sex-less simultaneously, subverting both male and female stereotypes of gender presentation and simply refusing to assert my attraction to any individual whatsoever. And for a brief moment, I thought that I was safe – it was certainly the most “comfortable” I’d been in my life up until that point, even if I wasn’t wholly “happy” – but then my first experience with gender envy had to fuck it all up.
When I was a freshman, Margot Robbie was the woman on the mind of every horny high school boy. The Wolf of Wall Street had just come out, and she oozed classic movie star charisma as the bombshell blonde Naomi Lapaglia, the second wife of Leonardo DiCaprio’s Jordan Belfort. I couldn’t put my finger on it then and there, but something about Robbie had me simply stupefied. Back then, I too misconstrued it as sexual attraction, but in hindsight, I’m able to more adeptly make sense of that specific sensation; I didn’t want to be with Robbie, I wanted to be her. From her luscious blonde locks to her beautiful “womanly” body to her staggering sensuality, I was horrifically hypnotized and foundationally fascinated by the power she held over men, and in particular, many of my crushes at the time. I’d always dreamt of myself as a woman – something I never second-guessed (though probably should’ve) – but during this phase of my life, those dreams were fiercer than ever. Nearly every night, I could so clearly see myself with her same physical attributes, so confident and so comfortable, but to others who questioned why I droned on about her so much, I attributed it to a simple “celebrity crush,” waving away more complicated conversations and further keeping up my falsehoods.
It was only in the fall of 2015 – the start of my junior year of high school – when I finally felt safe enough to openly call myself “gay.” Elkhorn still was “the way it was,” but the world was changing enough to the point where I didn’t think my life would be endangered by such a declaration, and I had the immense support of many of my friends – and faculty – in the activities I was most involved in (choir and drama, go figure), while a handful of other boys my age or younger at Elkhorn High had also come out, making me feel just a little less alone. And though I was almost universally accepted, something still didn’t feel “right.” At the time, this felt like the simplest – and safest – explanation for my identity. I’d always liked boys. I’d always felt “femme.” Based on what I saw around me and in the media, “gay” was it. “Gay” was the answer. And yet, my dreams – and Margot fucking Robbie – continued to haunt me day in and day out. This wasn’t right. What I felt was something deeper. I still even recall one conversation during senior year in which I half-jokingly told a close friend that I would change my gender in a heartbeat if I could do so with a “snap of my fingers” – and when she, attempting to be supportive, replied with real suggestions to pursuing processes that would allow me to do such a thing, I shrugged off my statement and told her I wasn’t serious, alarmed by the enormity of it all.
Because at that point, nothing I’d seen about the transgender experience exactly thrilled me, to say the least. What happens in Dallas Buyers Club? Rayon is misgendered and made fun of constantly before contracting AIDS and dying. What happens in The Danish Girl? Lili endures social and emotional suffering before succumbing to complications from her second gender reassignment surgery and dying. Even supposed “positive” depictions of trans women weren’t something I could relate to. Transparent saw yet another cis man playing a trans woman as the middle-aged Maura Pfefferman comes to terms with her gender identity far later in life than I – how was that at all applicable to me? And there sure as shit weren’t any trans people in Elkhorn, Nebraska. Gay was understandable. Gay was palatable. Gay was feasible. Trans meant money. Trans meant work. Trans meant pain. And that’s what was at the forefront of my mind as I left Elkhorn for Lincoln, Nebraska (which, in all honesty, wasn’t that much more accepting or accommodating) for college and made my first attempts to live my “gay adult life,” despite every interaction ending the same – unfulfilling and upsetting.
It had nothing to do with my attraction to men, but everything to do with the fact that I felt monstrously distressed on a molecular level any time I entered any romantic or sexual encounter in this body. Every time I’d tell myself to “just go along with it,” hoping that this time would be the time I enjoyed it; “the only way out is through,” after all. And yet, I was slowly starting to realize that there was no way out for me – at least, not like this. Not like Zach. And that’s when I first started to pull away from the world as, halfway through freshman year, I alienated myself from almost all of my closest friends before embarking on a blistering battle with anorexia that would affect me for almost two years. I chalked up my discomfort with my body to being dissatisfied with weight or my “size” – my broad shoulders, my big hands, my “strong” stature, and on and on and on. So, I cut my calories considerably and stuck to this strict diet regimen for nearly 24 months, experiencing intense exhilaration any time I passed by a mirror and saw my “slighter” frame and “daintier” (read: more “feminine”) disposition. The only problem was, as soon as I started, I would’ve never stopped until it almost killed me.
By the time I, at 5 feet 10 inches tall, weighed 110 pounds, I could hardly walk to and from my apartment and my classes without feeling faint by the time I arrived, and my mind was persistently “foggy,” constricting my concentration. However, the scariest sensations were the cardiovascular complications (a literal “heavy” heart and scarily slow heart rate) and my inability to produce body heat of any kind – it could be 90 degrees outside, and I’d still find a way to shiver. This was the point in which my family had to intervene and were it not for the immediate medical assistance I received and a pretty thorough recovery plan, I’m not sure I’d even still be here, especially given just how skeletal I had become. All sorts of explanations for my eating disorder were thrown around (Perhaps it was depression, anxiety, and/or OCD? Or maybe the stress of the first few years of college, especially in a city so far from home?), and I went along with them, too frightened to voice what I really felt in that moment, given the gravity of my near-death experience I was still grappling with.
I didn’t like my body. This I always knew. But it wasn’t just my “size” or my “shape” that upset me – it was my sex. Every pound I shed and every calorie I counted was all part of an effort to force myself into this societally and subconsciously sculpted standard of “femininity.” I wanted to be “dainty,” “delicate,” and “diminutive.” I wanted to be “petite” and “precious.” I wanted to be a woman. And as soon as I understood what had set me on this morbid mission, I sobbed for hours on end. It wasn’t something I could escape any longer. I’d evaded these emotions for so long that they nearly killed me. And yet, even at that point, I couldn’t find the courage to open up to anyone else about this. The unshakable guilt I had associated with transitioning was too much to bear. Even though it would make me happy, I was tormented by the thoughts of how much it would hurt those I love, especially taking into account where I lived, and where I grew up.
I felt like a psychic, peering into a future scenario where I was in the midst of a transition. I saw how my mom would have to adjust her face when she had to correct someone asking how her “son” was doing these days. I saw the way my sister struggled to explain why I looked a little bit different in every picture she posted of our family on her Facebook page. I saw my friends struggle to introduce me to their coworkers when we’d go out for drinks. In a world full of so many unhappy people, pursuing your own happiness feels like a radical act. And at that moment, I thought “What makes me special enough to believe I deserve to be happy more than anyone else? Why should I be allowed to pursue my happiness when it comes at the detriment of everyone I love?”
As I continued to consider this prospective future, I saw myself as well – this “freak” caught in a limbo between two separate lives. I was a burden. My friends and family loved me too much to say it, but that’s what I was, to the bone. They all had their own fair share of unhappiness to ward off, and there I was, selfishly prioritizing my happiness at the expense of theirs. And since they were unhappy, I couldn’t even be happy either. And that’s without taking into account how horrendous I assumed I’d “look” as a woman. “It wasn’t what you were born to be,” I kept telling myself. “You’re going to transition, and you’re going to still be ugly and unhappy.” I didn’t have the energy to actually act on any of my self-harm urges at this time – as my body was devoting all its efforts to trying to gain back all the weight that I had lost – but as I kept having these conversations in my head, all I wanted to do was die. I wanted to go to sleep and simply never wake up. I wanted my body to give up then and there and prevent me and those I loved from any further pain.
In the months that followed, I was able to somewhat correct my eating habits and abandon my anorexic death wish, but my mental health was just as messy as before. Everyone was praising me left and right for showing such “great progress,” but I didn’t feel “fixed.” In fact, if anything, I felt more broken than before. My mind was a constant minefield of fraught, fictional scenarios of my future, and yet, I still had to keep this all to myself, too afraid that saying it aloud would make it real, and then I’d be past the point of no return. However, while scrolling through Twitter one afternoon in the summer of 2019, I saw this glorious gif of a girl with hot pink hair smiling as a firework exploded behind her, and my life was never the same. I clocked it as being from Euphoria, but though I had heard of the show (primarily for Zendaya’s striking star turn in the lead role) and seen nothing but raves for Sam Levinson’s dark teen drama, I had yet to watch it myself. And as soon as I saw Jules, I knew that was something that needed to change.
For starters, she was just so. fucking. COOL. I frantically found every one of her outfits and every marvelous makeup look on Pinterest, adding them all to a private board, while also learning everything about Hunter Schafer that I could. She wasn’t the first trans actress I’d ever seen – Orange is the New Black’s Laverne Cox, Transparent’s Alexandra Billings and Trace Lysette, etc. – but she was the first around my age, and the first I felt an immediate identification with. Before I’d even seen a single clip from the show itself, I saw myself in Jules and Hunter, and she was the reason I started it in the first place. And, as soon as I did, I couldn’t stop kicking myself for waiting this long to do so. Not only was I instantly enraptured by Euphoria’s arresting aesthetic, energetic editing, and shrewd storytelling, but Jules herself was also just absolutely ethereal, unlike any fictional character that had ever existed in my eyes. From her first scene, she was a blinding beam of beauty and brilliance, gracefully gliding her bike down the side of the road without a worry in the world, with audiences as magically mesmerized as Zendaya’s Rue – and from that point on, I knew she’d be a part of my life forever.
Wherever she walked, Jules radiated jovial joy and jubilation, and yet, this “divine” depiction of the character never undercut her complexity either, as Sam Levinson – with assists from Schafer herself – continually took her to provocative and thought-provoking places in regard to the themes they explored surrounding her transness. She refused to let anyone else define her or write her destiny, and she didn’t simply exist to be sexualized or brutalized for the sake of shock value. She was the first trans character I’d ever seen that felt so real and ravishingly alive. And not only was Jules out and proud at 17 years old, but she was also never afraid to speak her mind and hurtle through her peers’ bullshit like a fucking hurricane. In the first episode alone, when she’s contentiously confronted by Jacob Elordi’s Nate (who gets in her face to tell her that “nobody who looks like [her] is minding their own business”), she grabbed a steak knife to defend herself before telling him to “back the fuck up,” shouting him into a corner, raising her arm, and cutting it ever-so-slightly, oblivious to the blood dripping off her body while illustrating her invincibility to any and all evils she may experience.
After Nate was suitably scared, she set the knife down, switched tones on a dime, and stated, “By the way, I’m Jules! I just moved here!” before strutting off as if nothing happened – but something did happen, and she had flipped a switch in me that I couldn’t turn back off. Never once had I seen a trans woman in entertainment portrayed so unabashedly self-assured and shameless. No one would touch her. No one would hurt her. She was the shit, and she’d make damn sure you knew it. She didn’t “ask” to be accepted; she demanded it. And even aside from her brazen boldness, I found myself endlessly enraptured by Jules’ glowing aura of genuineness. In every scene, she was wearing an opulent, “of-the-moment” outfit and done up in masterful makeup. She wore whatever made her happy, and she wasted no time being caught up in the cares or concerns of others. She was everything I wanted to be.
Above all else, Jules showed me how life as a trans woman didn’t have to be “scary” or “somber,” and while she wasn’t without her setbacks (elegantly explored in her special episode “Fuck Anyone Who’s Not a Sea Blob,” in which she spoke on trans fears regarding the persistent pursuit of this “elusive” femininity – a topic I’d long regarded as “taboo”), she made the best of every situation and brought out the best in her friends and family. She was loved deeply, and she was the physical manifestation of love, plain and simple, showing what’s possible when you refuse to let the world tell you who you are, or who you should be. Her optimism gave me the kick I needed to start coming out to some of my closest confidantes. I couldn’t contain myself any longer, as I stopped viewing my transness as a weakness; I saw it as a superpower. Once I told one person, I simply had to tell another. I thrived on the giddy glee that accompanied each conversation, and as I gained more and more support, I too began to feel as invincible as Jules. It still took me some time to get to that place with my family, but when those talks did happen, I envisioned her in the room with me, encouraging me every step of the way.
I also can’t emphasize enough how utterly essential characters like Jules are these days, especially when the rights of those in the trans community – and particularly, the rights of trans children – are constantly under attack. Look no further than what’s happening in Texas, where Governor Greg Abbott has called on “licensed professionals” and “members of the general public” to report the parents of transgender minors to state authorities should they start receiving gender-affirming medical care, labeling such care as “child abuse” under state law. Everywhere they look, trans youth are being told that they should feel ashamed of their gender identity, and that accepting yourself as you are will bring nothing but peril and pain to you and those you love. I never imagined that the world would grow more wretched and intolerant as I aged, instead hoping that increased exposure for trans people would enhance others’ empathy as well, but now more than ever, we need trans role models like Jules to teach this generation that “being happy” and “being trans” are not mutually exclusive experiences.
During a pivotal scene in the season 1 finale of Euphoria, Jules and Rue mull over the idea of running away together, and while this deliberation unfolds, Arcade Fire’s “My Body Is a Cage” plays in the background. As I watched this conversation transpire and listened to the music accompanying this moment, I thought of all the times I too had considered my body to be a cage, “[keeping] me from dancing with the [ones] I love.” And then, I found my focus on Jules once more, taking in the entirety of her invigorating identity. She was bright, bodacious, beautiful, and, most of all, beholden to no one’s expectations. She was the me I’d always imagined in my mind.
The song then repeated its chorus.
“My body is a cage that keeps me from dancing with the one I love.”
In Jules, I saw that happiness as a trans woman wasn’t just a fantasy, it was feasible.
“Buy my mind holds the key.”
And with her help, I finally broke the lock on that cage – and I was free.
Photos by Eddy Chen/HBO
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