THT Diagnosis of an Autonomy: 6x10 The Handmaid's Tale. If he ever thought he had a real choice, he would have chosen you.
I did not watch this finale and feel closure. I watched it and felt my shoulders lock, my jaw tighten, and my stress response kick in.
This episode wants to be remembered as a victory. As closure. As proof that endurance is rewarded and suffering leads somewhere meaningful. It wants swelling music, affirming voiceovers, and a clean emotional arc that reassures the audience the pain was worth it.
It is none of those things.
What it delivers instead is a profound misreading of its own story. One that mistakes survival for liberation and movement for freedom. It asks us to applaud not because June is free, but because she is still standing. Still useful. Still willing to go where she is sent next.
That distinction matters. And the finale does not understand it.
What The Handmaid’s Tale ultimately offers here is not autonomy, but permission. Conditional, supervised, ideologically approved permission. Freedom framed as something bestowed after sufficient suffering, rather than something inherent that was violated. Choice narrowed into duty. Desire erased in favor of virtue. Humanity parceled out only when it can be justified as morally productive.
This is not an accident of execution. It is the logical endpoint of a series that, in its final seasons, stopped trusting women with their own interior lives.
Once the show decided that a woman’s pain had to mean something in order to matter, it forfeited the very freedom it claimed to be fighting for.
This finale is where the show stops pretending it still believes in women’s autonomy at all.
Watching it doesn’t feel cathartic.
It feels like being told, one last time, to be grateful for what you’re allowed to have.
From the opening voiceover, the break is unmistakable. This June does not sound like Offred. She sounds like a press secretary for victory. Her narration announces liberation the way a government announces territory reclaimed. Boston is “free.” America is “back.” The language is declarative, triumphant, managerial. Freedom is treated as a status update.
But Atwood never wrote freedom as an announcement. She wrote it as a wound that never fully closes.
Offred’s narration was never about winning. It was about surviving without disappearing. About holding onto memory, desire, irony, and contradiction inside a system designed to flatten women into symbols. Freedom, in Atwood’s world, is fragile, incomplete, and terrifying because it restores choice, and choice is heavy.
This finale has no interest in that weight.
Instead, it replaces interior reckoning with montage. Firelight. Music. Familiar faces arranged into reassurance. The trauma of Gilead is smoothed into a sequence of reunions and slogans, as if liberation is something you can walk into once the uniforms are gone.
But freedom without autonomy is just a new script.
And that becomes devastatingly clear in what this episode does to June Osborne.
June does not emerge here as a woman reclaiming authorship over her life. She emerges as a figurehead. A vessel for messages about resistance, motherhood, and sacrifice that the story no longer interrogates. Her voiceover insists certainty where the character’s body is still in grief. Her words proclaim closure while her face registers something closer to shock, denial, and unprocessed loss.
The show repeatedly tells us June is free while showing us a woman whose most defining choices have been quietly stripped away. Her desire is treated as something she has matured past. Her erotic love is re-framed as a chapter she has outgrown. Her grief is redirected into productivity. Her autonomy is subsumed into responsibility.
Freedom, here, is not the right to want. It is the obligation to serve.
And that is the most devastating betrayal of Atwood’s feminism this finale commits.
The episode insists that liberation looks like choosing the cause over the self. Children over lovers. Legacy over intimacy. Duty over desire. A woman’s worth measured by how much of herself she is willing to surrender for a future she may never see. And it frames that narrowing not as loss, but as moral clarity. As growth. As wisdom earned through suffering.
But this is not a break from Gilead’s logic. It is its refinement.
Because Gilead was never only enforced through violence. It was enforced through meaning. Through stories women were told about who they were for. Through the moral framing that made sacrifice virtuous, hunger shameful, desire suspect, and autonomy selfish. Through the idea that a “good” woman knows when to disappear into purpose, preferably one centered on children, legacy, or nation.
Atwood was explicit about this.
The terror of Gilead was not just that women were brutalized. It was that womanhood itself was redefined as service. That value was conditional. That identity flowed outward — toward reproduction, care taking, duty — rather than inward toward selfhood. Women were not erased. They were repurposed.
And that is exactly what this finale does.
By positioning “keeping future children safe” as the ultimate moral endpoint, the show collapses womanhood into stewardship. It tells us, explicitly, that the highest expression of freedom is not self-authorship, but self-sacrifice in perpetuity. That a woman’s liberation is only complete once it is redirected toward protecting others rather than living fully herself.
This is disastrous. Because it quietly reinstates the oldest patriarchal bargain there is: you may be free, as long as your freedom is useful.
Motherhood is sanctified here not as one possible life among many, but as the moral axis of meaning. Sisterhood is aestheticized as collective endurance rather than mutual recognition of difference. Erotic love, the kind of love Atwood treated as dangerous precisely because it centered women’s wanting, is sidelined as immature, destabilizing, or indulgent. Something to be mourned, not chosen.
And in doing so, the show tells a chilling story about who freedom is for.
What about women who do not have children? What about women who cannot? What about women who choose not to? What about women whose deepest loves are not maternal, not communal, not legible as sacrifice?
Under the show's thesis, they are collateral.
And this is where the finale becomes not just wrong, but revealing.
Because once you strip away the rhetoric of freedom and resistance, what’s left is a story that cannot imagine womanhood without a moral alibi.
A story that panics at female desire unless it can be subordinated to care. A story that only knows how to grant women legitimacy if their lives are oriented toward protecting something beyond themselves.
This is why the fixation on Hannah is not just narratively lazy. It is ideologically convenient. Hannah becomes the excuse that flattens everything else. The reason June’s desire must be renounced. The justification for why erotic love is indulgent, grief must be deferred, and choice can never be singular or selfish. Hannah is not the heart of the story here. She is the mechanism that allows the story to discipline June back into acceptability.
And the most damning part is how many viewers accept this framing without question. How easily “it’s about her child” is treated as a mic drop, as if that sentiment alone resolves every other loss. As if invoking motherhood automatically sanctifies the erasure of a woman’s interior life. As if wanting anything beyond that — love, sex, intimacy, a chosen partner — is a moral failure rather than a human one.
This is a catastrophic failure of feminist imagination, especially now.
In a moment when women’s choices are being narrowed, surveilled, and moralized in real time. When desire is treated as suspect, autonomy as dangerous, and self-determination as something that must be justified. This finale does not challenge that logic. It echoes it.
It reassures the audience that a woman can be free, as long as she wants the right things. As long as her life bends toward service. As long as her longing doesn’t make anyone uncomfortable.
That is why this ending feels so hollow.
Not because June suffers, but because the show no longer believes her wanting is worth protecting. And a feminism that cannot defend women’s wanting is not liberation at all.
THE GOOD: The human moments the finale couldn’t fully erase
For all its ideological failures, the finale cannot completely extinguish the human residue it inherited from earlier seasons. And the moments that still work do so not because the episode understands them, but because they arrive carrying emotional truth the writing no longer knows how to metabolize.
These moments do not redeem the ending. They indict it. They remind us what this story once knew how to do, and what it actively chooses to abandon.
The strongest of these moments are quiet, unambitious, almost anti-climactic. Which is precisely why they feel real.
What makes these moments powerful is also what makes them devastating: they demonstrate that the show still can access emotional truth. It just refuses to let that truth guide its conclusions.
These scenes work because they are small. Because they are specific. Because they are not trying to mean everything. They succeed in spite of the finale’s thesis, not because of it. And that’s the cruelest part.
The good in 6x10 doesn’t point forward. It points backward. To an earlier version of this story that trusted interiority, contradiction, and desire. A version that understood that freedom was not something women earned through sacrifice, but something they claimed by remaining human.
The finale lets that version surface just long enough to remind us what’s been lost. And then it buries it.
June alone: survival without narrative closure
The most honest moment June has in the finale is also the least emphasized: the brief stretches where she is not explaining herself to anyone.
When June is alone — not addressing a child, not answering Serena, not performing coherence for Luke, not embodying resistance — her body tells a different story than the one the episode insists on concluding. She moves carefully. She speaks sparingly. Her affect is restrained to the point of brittleness. This is not the posture of someone who has reached clarity. It is the posture of someone holding herself together moment by moment.
What makes these scenes work is precisely what the episode refuses to name: June has not arrived anywhere. She is still inside the immediate aftermath of loss.
There is no catharsis in these moments, and that is their strength. June is not framed as victorious or healed. She is framed as functional. And function, here, is not triumph. It is survival in its rawest, least narrativized form. The ability to keep moving when stopping would mean collapse.
The show briefly allows us to see June without a thesis. Without justification. Without language strong enough to organize what she’s feeling. And in those seconds, she looks unmistakably like a woman in shock.
That restraint matters. Because grief does not announce itself cleanly. It does not arrive as wisdom. It arrives as flattening, as distance, as a narrowing of emotional range so the body can continue to operate. The finale accidentally captures that reality, and then immediately betrays it by insisting June has already made peace with what she’s lost.
Like the other “good” moments in the episode, this one succeeds by refusing spectacle. There is no speech. No declaration. No symbolic punctuation. Just a woman existing in the thin space between endurance and breakdown.
But the episode cannot tolerate that image for long. It moves quickly to supply June with language, purpose, forward motion. Anything that will keep her from lingering in the truth those quiet moments expose.
It briefly honors the fact that healing has not yet begun. June is not free here. She is upright. And the finale mistakes that distinction for resolution.
June and Emily: survival without mythology
The scene with Emily in front of the ice cream shop is one of the few moments in the finale that feels unpolluted by agenda. There is no speechifying. No symbolic framing. No attempt to make either woman representative of something larger than herself.
They speak like survivors do: elliptically, defensively, with humor sharp enough to keep grief at bay.
Emily’s line, that her wife and son are the reason she’s still fighting, lands not as a thesis, but as a truth she has learned to live inside. There is no implication that this is the right reason. Only that it is hers. And crucially, the show does not ask June to mirror it.
For one brief scene, the episode allows multiple reasons for endurance to coexist without ranking them. No one is corrected. No one is moralized. No one is told what they should be fighting for.
It’s the closest the finale comes to honoring Atwood’s pluralism: the idea that survival doesn’t have a single ethical justification, only personal ones.
That restraint, fleeting as it is, feels like oxygen.
Janine’s return: survival without triumph
Janine’s reunion with Angela is the one moment where the show resists its own impulse toward spectacle. There is no victory music. No grand statement. No attempt to frame this as justice finally arriving.
It’s just a mother finding her child after hell.
And what makes it work is that the scene does not pretend this reunion repairs what was done. Janine is not restored. Lydia is not absolved. Gilead is not balanced out by this one mercy.
The moment exists without claiming to fix anything.
That honesty matters. Because Atwood never wrote in clean compensations. She wrote in partial mercies. In moments of relief that sit beside irrevocable loss.
Janine holding Angela doesn’t cancel the harm. It just proves that harm didn’t get the last word this time.
That’s as close to grace as this story ever allowed itself, and the finale briefly remembers that.
Memory as resistance (almost)
The karaoke fantasy, flawed as it is, gestures toward something the show once understood deeply: that remembering the dead as whole people, not martyrs, is itself an act of defiance.
Seeing Alma, Brianna, Janine, Moira, Rita, Emily — laughing, singing, existing outside utility — is one of the few moments where the finale gestures toward the interior freedom Atwood prioritized. These women are not serving a cause. They are not enduring. They are not instructing.
The moment falters because the show cannot sustain that vision. It immediately re-inscribes loss into purpose. But for an instant, it allows memory to be about joy rather than obligation.
And that matters, because Atwood understood memory not as fuel for revolution, but as proof of selfhood.
THE BAD: Freedom rewritten as moral obedience
The finale insists it is delivering liberation, but what it actually offers is a narrowed, disciplinary version of freedom. One that looks disturbingly like the logic Gilead used to control women in the first place.
This episode re-frames freedom not as the right to want, choose, or contradict oneself, but as the obligation to serve something larger than the self. The language is everywhere: sacrifice, duty, legacy, protection, future generations. Desire disappears. Interior life is treated as noise. What matters is usefulness.
June is not liberated here. She is repurposed.
Womanhood collapsed into motherhood and service
The most corrosive choice the final episodes make are not killing a character or choosing spectacle over interiority. It is ideological. It is the decision to collapse womanhood into motherhood, and motherhood into obligation.
By the end of the series, the show presents a single, sanctioned version of female meaning: a woman’s life is justified by what she protects, not by what she wants. Children, real or hypothetical, become the moral center of the universe. Every sacrifice is framed as necessary if it can be laundered through keeping children safe. Every loss is redeemed if it can be narrated as service to the future.
“I think I have to do my best to help keep all the little girls in Gilead safe, too.”
“This is the story for people who may never find their babies, the people who will never give up trying.”
This is not just a narrative preference. It is a philosophical betrayal of Atwood so profound it borders on inversion.
Atwood never sanctified motherhood. She interrogated it. She treated reproduction as a site of terror precisely because it had been weaponized as destiny. Her feminism was about choice under constraint.
The right to want children or not want them, to lose them and still matter, to be shattered by that loss without being reduced to it. Motherhood, in Atwood’s world, is not a moral trump card. It is one experience among many that a woman may or may not survive intact.
The finale rejects that complexity outright.
Here, womanhood is no longer plural. It is hierarchical. Mothers, especially suffering mothers, are elevated as the highest moral class. Everyone else is folded into the background or implicitly asked to find meaning through service to children who are not theirs. Womanhood becomes stewardship. Value becomes endurance. Virtue becomes self-erasure in the name of protection.
June’s final articulation of purpose makes this explicit. She does not speak about living. She does not speak about wanting. She does not speak about a future that includes pleasure or intimacy. She speaks about vigilance. About staying in the fight. About guarding a world she may never actually get to inhabit.
This is not liberation. This is conscription.
It is the same logic Gilead used, stripped of religious language and repackaged as feminism. Gilead told women their bodies existed for the future. The finale tells women their lives exist for it. Different vocabulary. Same architecture.
And the cost of that architecture is staggering.
Women without children are rendered auxiliary. Women who cannot have children are rendered incomplete. Women who choose not to are rendered suspect. Their freedom, the finale implies, is less urgent, less meaningful, less worth fighting for unless it can be tethered to the protection of someone else’s offspring.
This is not a story about universal liberation. It is a story about reproductive virtue.
Atwood’s feminism does not require women to disappear into service in order to be considered good. She never argued that survival must justify itself through future utility. She wrote about women fighting to remain human in systems designed to strip them down into vessels — of labor, ideology, and legacy.
The finale completes that transformation instead of resisting it.
In its final hour, The Handmaid’s Tale does not dismantle the logic that reduced women to means rather than ends. It sanctifies it. It simply swaps God for “the future” and calls the result progress.
It is the story quietly siding with the very framework it once claimed to expose.
Desire quietly disqualified as immature
One of the finale’s most insidious moves is how completely it disqualifies erotic desire without ever having the courage to argue against it. It doesn’t condemn desire outright. That would require interrogation. It does something far more cowardly.
It treats desire as something you grow out of.
The episode frames June’s future as a narrowing: not just away from Nick, but away from wanting itself. Erotic love is positioned as a phase. A destabilizing indulgence. A fire that burns hot and then must be extinguished so “real” purpose can take over. Wanting becomes juvenile. Dangerous. Incompatible with moral adulthood.
This is not subtle. It is systemic.
June is allowed memory, but not pursuit. Love is permitted only in retrospect, carefully cordoned off as something meaningful but no longer actionable. Desire becomes a story you tell about who you used to be. Not a force you are allowed to follow into the future.
And that framing is devastating.
Because this is exactly the logic Gilead used.
Gilead did not just fear desire because it was pleasurable. It feared desire because it made women specific. It disrupted hierarchy. It created loyalties that could not be rerouted into duty or ideology. A woman who wants someone rather than something abstract is unmanageable.
The finale quietly agrees.
Instead of challenging that logic, it rehabilitates it under the language of growth. A “whole” woman, the show suggests, is one who can master her desire. Contain it. Set it aside without rupture. Fold the loss of the love of her life into duty and keep moving.
That is not emotional truth. That is discipline masquerading as maturity.
And for anyone who connected to The Handmaid’s Tale because of how fiercely it once defended interior life, because it insisted that wanting was not a flaw but a form of resistance, this turn feels like betrayal on a personal level.
Offred’s desire was never meant to be outgrown. It was meant to endure. It lived alongside fear. Alongside guilt. Alongside moral compromise. It did not make her pure. It made her real. It reminded her, and us, that even in captivity, she was still a woman who wanted, not just a woman who endured.
The finale replaces that with something smaller and far more dangerous.
Here, desire is framed as something that must be relinquished in order for a woman to be considered healed. Erotic love becomes incompatible with leadership, with motherhood, with purpose. It is quietly reclassified as indulgence — meaningful, perhaps, but ultimately optional.
And that message is devastating, especially because we should be teaching the opposite. We should be teaching that desire does not disappear when you become responsible. That loving fiercely does not make you immature. That wanting a person does not negate your commitment to justice. That erotic love is not a threat to womanhood. It is one of its most vital expressions.
The finale teaches none of this.
Instead, it teaches women that adulthood means containment. That growth looks like renunciation. That the highest form of selfhood is service stripped of hunger. That losing the love of your life without protest is not tragedy, but wisdom.
That is not feminist clarity. It is the domestication of desire.
And for those of us who found ourselves in this story because it once insisted that wanting was not shameful, because it gave language to the parts of us that still burned even under constraint, this ending doesn’t just disappoint.
It erases something essential. Not just about June. About what women are allowed to want.
Serena Joy is not owed forgiveness, and pretending otherwise is a lie
Let’s be clear about one thing up front: Serena Joy does not deserve forgiveness. Not narratively. Not philosophically. Not ethically. Not as a matter of “human complexity.”
This is not a debate about whether Serena is capable of remorse, or whether suffering has changed her, or whether motherhood has softened her edges. Those questions are irrelevant. The finale’s failure is not that it forgives Serena too easily. It’s that it treats forgiveness as an appropriate response at all.
Fred carried out the brutality of Gilead. Serena authored the justification.
That distinction matters more than anything else the show tries to flatten.
Fred was a coward with power. Serena was a believer with vision. She didn’t just benefit from Gilead. She conceptualized it, refined it, moralized it, and weaponized it against other women while believing herself exempt. Her intelligence made the system more dangerous, not less.
Motherhood does not erase that. Regret does not erase that. Tears do not erase that.
And June Osborne forgiving her does not transform it into growth. It transforms it into narrative malpractice.
Because Atwood never confused forgiveness with moral clarity. She never treated absolution as progress. In her work, forgiveness is power precisely because it is not freely given. It requires truth. Naming. Reckoning. Consequence.
Serena receives none of those. Instead, the show offers her something far easier: emotional proximity to June.
Two mothers. Two survivors. Two women who “made choices.”
This is where the finale commits its most dishonest sleight of hand.
June and Serena are not mirrors. They are opposites.
June resisted a system she never consented to. Serena built one she believed in.
June’s violence was coerced. Serena’s was intentional.
June’s survival was radical because it preserved her interior life. Serena’s survival has always been about reclaiming control.
By collapsing them into moral equivalence, the show doesn’t elevate June. It degrades her. It asks June to validate Serena’s humanity in a way that erases Serena’s culpability. It turns forgiveness into a tool for tidying up the story rather than confronting its ugliest truth.
And worse, it teaches a profoundly dangerous lesson: that suffering redeems ideology. That motherhood absolves cruelty. That women who help build oppressive systems can be morally restored without dismantling the harm they caused.
Atwood understood something the adaptation refuses to face: the most dangerous people in oppressive systems are not the loud monsters. They are the articulate ones who believe they are right. The women who use empathy selectively. Who cloak domination in moral language. Who mistake their pain for innocence.
Serena Joy is that woman.
She should not be forgiven. She should not be redeemed. She should not be softened so the ending can feel humane.
Her presence should have forced reckoning, not offered comfort.
By granting her absolution without accountability, the show doesn’t demonstrate mercy. It demonstrates fear.
Fear of sitting with the truth that some harms cannot be smoothed over. Some women do not get to be reclaimed. And some stories demand that we live with that discomfort rather than resolve it neatly.
Atwood lived there. The finale runs from it.
Luke is still mishandled in the finale. That much hasn’t changed.
The show continues to mistake his steadiness for moral clarity, his patience for virtue, his survival for depth. His exchanges with June are tidy in a way real reckoning never is. He is allowed to frame himself as the man who stayed, the man who waited, the man who can now be “met in the middle,” without ever being forced to confront what that framing erases.
“It wasn’t all horrors. You had people who helped you like Janine, Emily, and Lawrence, and Nick. People who loved you. People who you loved. They’re all worth remembering.”
He is not being generous. He is being revealing.
Luke does not place himself in competition with Nick — for one thing, Nick is dead — because he doesn’t believe he needs to. He speaks from a position of assumed primacy. As if Nick belongs in a list of formative experiences rather than at the center of June’s emotional life. As if loving Nick was one chapter among many, rather than the relationship that fundamentally reorganized how June survived, chose, and endured.
Luke is not threatened here because the story has already reassured him that erotic, destabilizing love has been demoted. That it belongs safely in memory. That it can be honored without being allowed to matter anymore. Nick is something to be “remembered,” not reckoned with. A past intensity that June is expected to metabolize and move past.
And Luke speaks that language comfortably, because it is the language the finale itself has adopted.
That’s why this moment doesn’t read as insecurity or rivalry. It reads as closure imposed from the outside. An attempt to flatten love into something manageable so that everyone can move forward without having to confront the fact that not all love is equal, interchangeable, or survivable in the same way.
But in the context of this episode, Luke is not the core failure.
Luke’s arc doesn’t implode the story because the story has already hollowed itself out around him. His presence no longer feels like an active ideological threat so much as a symptom of the show’s retreat into safety. He represents the version of masculinity the writers feel comfortable resolving toward — stable, familiar, undemanding — but by the time we reach 6x10, that choice is no longer shocking. It’s just small.
The finale doesn’t hinge on Luke being right. It hinges on June being made smaller.
And that’s the real problem.
Luke’s failures matter because of what they enable, not because of what they provoke. He is the endpoint the story drifts toward once desire is disqualified, once devotion is re-framed as immaturity, once a woman’s interior life becomes something to manage rather than honor.
In earlier seasons, Luke should have faced a reckoning. A real one. About entitlement, about passivity, about what it means to love someone who has been fundamentally remade by trauma.
By the finale, that reckoning is no longer even attempted, because the show has already decided that reckoning itself is unnecessary.
Luke isn’t challenged because the story no longer believes challenge is required.
And that, ultimately, is why he feels beside the point here.
He isn’t the betrayal. He’s what the story settles for once it abandons the harder truths it used to be willing to face.
Which is just one more reminder, among hundreds, that Nick exists in a category Luke can never access, no matter how hard the show tries to flatten it. Some bonds don’t compete. They redefine the scale.
THE UGLY: When the story turns on itself
What makes the finale unforgivable isn’t any single choice. It’s the pattern that choice reveals.
By the time we reach the final sequence, the show is no longer misreading Atwood. It is actively arguing with her. It has decided what kind of woman June is allowed to be, what kind of love is permissible, and what kind of freedom counts as respectable. Anything that doesn’t fit that narrowed vision is rewritten, sidelined, or erased.
And the cost of that is enormous: June’s interior life, the meaning of desire, the possibility of an ending that includes survival rather than perpetual sacrifice, and the canon truth of what, and who, actually breaks Gilead.
This is not where the show stumbles. This is where it tells you exactly what it believes.
Denial as destiny: June and the lie of “moving on”
The finale asks us to believe that June has processed Nick’s death. Nothing on screen supports that claim.
What the episode actually shows — relentlessly, unmistakably — is denial. Acute, immediate, structurally necessary denial. The kind that allows a person to remain upright when the truth would collapse them entirely. The kind that keeps someone moving because stopping would mean drowning.
Every word June speaks about Nick in this episode sounds engineered to hold something back.
“Nick reaped what he sowed.”
“He led a violent and dishonest life.”
These are not insights. They are scaffolding.
They are the sentences people build when the alternative is unlivable: that the man she loved died without closure, without agency, without being chosen back in the one way that mattered. That she watched him walk toward death and did nothing. That the last words between them were evasions and deflections instead of truth. That she never got to say goodbye in a way that matched the depth of what they were.
The episode frames this language as acceptance. It is not. It is psychic triage.
Look at what the finale actually shows us, not what it tells us.
June’s body does not behave like someone who has let go. Her affect is flattened, brittle, over-controlled. Her grief leaks out sideways — in flashbacks she does not summon, in moments of dissociation, in the way her eyes glaze when Nick is mentioned, in the way she cannot stay in her own emotional register when Serena speaks his name.
The flashbacks matter. They are not random nostalgia. They are intrusive. Unwelcome. Physical. Her mind keeps returning to the bridge, the apartment, the intimacy. Not because she is reminiscing, but because she is still trying to process a loss that never resolved. This is not memory as comfort. It is memory as haunt.
And crucially: none of these memories are framed as past tense in her body. She does not remember Nick like someone who has folded him into her history. She reacts like someone whose attachment has been severed without warning.
That is not closure. That is shock.
Serena’s comments expose this more cleanly than anything else in the episode. Because it names the thing June is desperately trying not to touch: that Nick did choose her. Repeatedly. Actively. At great cost. And that the only reason that choice didn’t continue is because the story prevented June from answering it out loud.
June’s response here isn’t rage. It isn’t grief. It’s withdrawal.
That’s denial doing its job.
“If he ever thought he had a real choice, he would have chosen you.”
This line only works if you erase the entire show.
Because Nick didn’t theoretically choose June. He didn’t emotionally choose June. He didn’t wish he could choose June. He chose her. Repeatedly. Explicitly. At escalating cost. Over and over again.
He chose her when it endangered him. He chose her when it endangered others. He chose her when it stripped him of leverage. He chose her when it destroyed his ability to remain neutral. He chose her when it meant living in permanent moral compromise. He chose her when it meant death was no longer abstract.
The show documented this obsessively.
Let’s be very clear about what the line is trying to suggest: that Nick stayed in Gilead because he preferred power. That he chose power and survival over June. That he mistook status for love. That if the option had truly existed, he would have walked away cleanly.
That framing collapses under even the lightest scrutiny.
Nick’s version of resistance was never ideological purity. It was proximity. Staying close enough to intervene. Close enough to move systems quietly. Close enough to buy time when time was the only currency left. Every position he held was leverage. Not for himself, but for June, for Holly, for Hannah.
This is not speculation. This is text.
Nick orchestrates escapes. Nick feeds intelligence. Nick manipulates Commanders. Nick repeatedly puts his neck in the noose to keep June alive. Nick helps murder Fred. Nick chooses allegiance to June over allegiance to Gilead every time it matters.
And most damningly: when the show finally puts a clean exit on the table, he doesn’t hesitate.
He already has papers. He already has a plan. He already has imagined a life beyond survival. You do not build that unless you’ve already chosen.
So what is this line doing?
It is not explaining Nick. It is protecting June.
Because the real, unbearable truth is this: Nick did choose June, and she did not choose him back in the moment it mattered most.
That is the wound the finale cannot touch.
So instead of letting June say, I couldn’t move, I froze, I failed him, I loved him and still let him die, the show hands her a lie that re-frames his death as inevitability rather than consequence.
“If he had a real choice” becomes a way of saying this was never mine to stop. It absolves her of action. It neutralizes her guilt. It transforms paralysis into fate.
And June knows it’s false.
You can hear it in how she doesn’t argue. You can see it in how she doesn’t inhabit the line. It doesn’t land in her body as truth. It lands like something she needs to repeat in order to survive the next breath.
This is not ignorance. This is denial with a purpose.
Because if June allowed herself to acknowledge what the show itself proved, that Nick chose her again and again, even unto death, then she would have to face the other half of that equation.
That she did not choose him out loud when it counted. And that is the one thing this ending will not let her reckon with.
So the line stands. Untested. Unchallenged. Hollow.
Not because it’s convincing, but because without it, the entire ending collapses.
It’s not a statement about Nick. It’s a psychological airbag for June.
And the tragedy is that the show mistakes that airbag for healing. It isn’t. It’s how you keep driving forward without ever turning around to look at what you lost.
And June will never be free of him because of it.
The finale does not give June space to mourn Nick honestly. It gives her talking points. It gives her moral shorthand. It gives her a narrative she can hide inside so she doesn’t have to sit with the fact: that the love of her life died unresolved, and she will never know what might have happened if she had acted differently.
And the show locks her there.
The June we leave in the final frames is not free. She is functional. Mission-oriented. Oriented toward work, purpose, forward motion. But nothing about her suggests peace. She is still in love. Still tethered. Still organizing her life around avoiding stillness.
That is the sentence this ending hands her.
Because this isn’t just about one moment at the airfield or one line in the finale. It’s about the fact that June had multiple off-ramps, over multiple episodes, where she could have stopped this outcome emotionally, even if she couldn’t stop it politically, and she didn’t take a single one.
At no point does she say the sentence that would have anchored her to reality.
Not to Nick. Not to Luke. Not to her Mom. Not to Serena. Not to herself.
She never says: I love him and I choose him, even knowing the cost. She never says: I am allowed to want this, even if it hurts.
Instead, she lets other people narrate it for her.
She lets Wharton define him. She lets Serena moralize him. She lets Luke simplify him. She lets the cause absorb him.
And every time she stays silent, the lie hardens.
That’s why the ending is so bleak on a human level. Because June isn’t just avoiding grief, she’s postponing it. She’s stockpiling it. She’s burying it under language about duty and children and “what comes next,” but none of that actually metabolizes what happened.
Eventually, she is going to have to look straight at the truth: that the man she loved died and she did nothing. That he asked her to choose him — not safety, not ideology, him. That she didn’t say yes out loud. That she let the world carry him away without interruption.
And no amount of good she does afterward will undo that reckoning.
This is why the show’s framing is so morally dishonest. It treats June’s restraint as wisdom, when in reality it’s avoidance. It treats her composure as growth, when it’s actually dissociation. It treats her forward motion as freedom, when it’s clearly a refusal to stop long enough to collapse.
The show denies June that humanity. It keeps her moving so she never has to face the truth of what she lost or the part she played in it. But truth has a way of waiting.
One day, the war will quiet. The children will grow. The mission will stall or end or no longer need her. And when there’s finally silence, real silence, she will be alone with it.
With the fact that she loved him.
With the fact that he chose her every time.
With the fact that he didn’t just choose her, but their child.
With the fact that so much of what he did — every risk, every compromise, every impossible calculation — was about keeping June alive long enough to get back to Hannah, and keeping Holly/Nichole free enough to never become Hannah.
With the fact that he was protecting her daughters when he stayed. That he was buying time for their future when he didn’t run. That his idea of resistance was proximity. Being close enough to intervene, to move pieces, to block the worst outcomes before they reached her or the girls.
And with the fact that she let the man who made her child possible, who helped ensure that child would never wear red, walk toward death without claiming him out loud.
That’s the truth the finale cannot survive.
Because once you name that, the story collapses under the weight of its own lies.
Holly isn’t just a child June must now “protect.” She is living proof that Nick’s love worked. That defiance didn’t just burn things down. It built something. A future outside Gilead’s logic. A child born of desire, not doctrine. A bridge out of the nightmare.
And the show turns that bridge into a burden. It reframes Nick’s devotion as moral failure. It reframes Holly as justification for endless sacrifice. And it reframes June’s silence as wisdom instead of what it really is: terror at the truth.
Because if June ever lets herself fully admit what Nick was to her, and what he was to their child, then she has to admit the full cost of not stopping it. Of not choosing him out loud. Of letting the world decide for her in the one moment that mattered most.
So she keeps moving. She keeps working. She keeps reframing. Not because she’s free. Because stopping would break her.
This isn’t noble sacrifice. It isn’t growth. It isn’t liberation. It’s unending grief without permission to name itself. A life structured so she never has to sit still long enough to feel what she lost, or who she lost it with.
The show freezes June mid-breath, mid-love, mid-denial, and calls that an ending. Which may be the cruelest betrayal of all.
Freedom without an endpoint
The finale’s most fundamental failure is its belief that resistance was meant to be eternal. This is not a small thematic drift. It is a complete inversion of Atwood’s moral architecture.
Atwood never wrote endless war. She never wrote liberation as permanent mobilization. She never imagined freedom as a life sentence of usefulness. What she wrote was survival with an exit — with escape, with the terrifying and radical possibility that the fight might end and something ordinary, unheroic, and human could begin afterward.
That distinction is everything.
In The Handmaid’s Tale, resistance is not an identity. It is a condition imposed by tyranny. You resist because you must. Because not resisting means disappearing. But the goal is never to become resistance itself. The goal is to get out. To live. To be free. To exist beyond the system’s reach. Not as a symbol, not as a martyr, not as a moral instrument, but as a person.
The show refuses that possibility.
June does not choose a life. She chooses a mission that has no terminus. A form of purpose that requires perpetual vigilance, perpetual sacrifice, perpetual readiness to leave again. There is no imagined future where she gets to stop being useful. No moment where her body, her time, her love belong to her without justification.
Freedom, in this telling, is something she administers for others. Not something she is allowed to inhabit herself.
Atwood’s ending is often described as ambiguous, but that word undersells what she actually achieves. Offred steps into the van without knowing whether she is being rescued or arrested. The uncertainty is intimate and terrifying, but it is also the point. For the first time since Gilead took her, the system no longer has full claim over her body or her future. Her fate is unknown, and therefore no longer fully owned.
Crucially, the resistance does not swallow her whole.
She does not become its mouthpiece. She does not narrate victory. She does not outline the next phase of the war. She survives past resistance into uncertainty, into possibility, into a future that is not defined for her in advance.
That is Atwood’s radical move: she refuses to turn suffering into destiny.
The adaptation cannot tolerate that ending.
It does not trust a woman who survives and then lives. A woman who chooses love and still gets to exist afterward. A woman whose story does not resolve into permanent service, whether to a regime or to its overthrow.
So it keeps June in motion forever. Fighting forever. Leaving forever. Sacrificing forever.
It replaces escape with obligation. It replaces survival with stewardship. It replaces autonomy with duty.
And it calls that feminism.
But Atwood understood something the finale fundamentally does not: resistance that never ends is not freedom. It is captivity rebranded. It is the same logic Gilead used, repackaged with different enemies and better music.
Gilead told women their value lay in what they could endure. The finale tells June her value lies in what she is willing to give up. Different language. Same cage. This is not a misunderstanding of Atwood’s politics. It is a rejection of them.
Because Atwood believed the point was not to become untouchable, righteous, or endlessly useful. The point was to stay human long enough to get out, and then to live, imperfectly, quietly, selfishly if necessary, in the daylight.
The finale cannot imagine that woman.
So it doesn’t let her exist.
And this is where The Testaments makes the show’s ending collapse completely.
In Atwood’s canon, Offred does not become a permanent revolutionary mascot. She disappears. She goes deep enough that history loses her edges. She survives by refusing visibility. And crucially, she is not alone in that disappearance. Nick goes underground too.
That is not subtext. That is text.
Atwood is explicit that Nick is part of the resistance network that survives long enough to matter. That he continues working in the shadows. That he helps orchestrate the conditions that allow Gilead to fall decades later. And that June and Nick are reunited.
Not symbolically. Not metaphorically.
They find each other again.
This is Atwood’s final word on their story: love does not make them weaker, or naïve, or less committed to resistance. Love is what outlasts the regime. Love is what survives long enough to become legacy.
That’s why The Testaments does not center Hannah’s captivity as the mechanism of change. It centers Nichole’s freedom.
Nichole — raised outside Gilead, beyond its moral framing, beyond its theology — becomes the living proof that love, sex, and choice can outlive tyranny. She is not sanctified through sacrifice. She is liberated through survival. And her existence is inseparable from the man who helped June escape in the first place.
In Atwood’s world, Nichole and her father are the future. They are the bridge out of Gilead. They are the continuation of life after resistance. They are the proof that the fight was never meant to last forever.
To stage a finale like this, to let June name her child, claim her body, speak her story, and then erase Nick, sever their bond, and relegate Nichole to a moral footnote is not evolution.
It is the story turning against itself.
The adaptation replaces Atwood’s ending — disappearance, survival, reunion — with something smaller and crueler: perpetual vigilance as virtue. Endless service as meaning. A woman who never gets to stop sacrificing.
But Atwood’s ultimate thesis is the opposite.
Love is stronger than death. Love is stronger than regimes. Love survives underground.
Not loudly. Not heroically. Not as spectacle.
Quietly. Stubbornly. Humanly.
June does not become free by choosing the cause over the self. She becomes free by escaping the system’s demand that she justify her existence through usefulness at all. By surviving long enough to live. To love. To be reunited with the person who knew her when she was still a person, not a symbol.
The show refuses that ending because it does not trust it.
It does not trust love that does not announce itself as ideology. It does not trust desire that refuses to be disciplined. It does not trust a woman who survives and then chooses a life that is not in service to a moral lesson.
So it strands June in motion forever.
Atwood let her disappear. And in that disappearance, she let her live.
That is the ending the show could not, or would not, allow.
And it is why, in the end, the adaptation doesn’t just misread Atwood. It rejects her.
The Nichole/Holly betrayal: erasing the bridge out of Gilead
The finale’s most unforgivable move is not what it does to Nick. It’s what it does to Nichole/Holly.
Because in Atwood’s canon, Nichole/Holly is not a motivational prop. She is not a reason to keep suffering. She is not a symbol of endless vigilance. She is the proof that something escaped.
She exists because Gilead failed.
She grows up outside it. She is raised beyond its language, its theology, its moral traps. She becomes the carrier of truth precisely because she is not shaped by captivity. The Testaments is explicit about this: it is not Hannah’s prolonged suffering that brings Gilead down. It is Nichole’s freedom. Her distance. Her survival beyond the system’s reach.
And crucially: she exists because of love.
Not sanctioned love. Not ideological love. Erotic, dangerous, forbidden love, and a man who lived in the gray margins of resistance and complicity long enough to help a woman escape with her body and her future intact. Nichole is not born of purity or doctrine. She is born of choice under pressure. Of desire that refused to be disciplined.
That is the architecture Atwood built. The finale dismantles it.
Nichole/Holly is no longer the evidence that the fight worked. She becomes justification for why it can never end. She is re-framed as a reason June must keep leaving, keep sacrificing, keep subordinating her own life to an abstract future. Nichole is folded into obligation, not freedom.
And in order to make that logic hold, the show has to erase her father.
Nick’s role in Nichole/Holly's existence is quietly minimized, then buried. His love becomes a detour. His devotion becomes expendable. The man who helped create the future is rewritten as an unfortunate cost of getting there. The bridge out of Gilead is burned so the story can pretend the only path forward is eternal war.
That is not a neutral choice.
The Globe scene makes this betrayal impossible to miss. June stands in the archive of memory, framed as witness and author, surrounded by the language of history, and the story subtly shifts her purpose. She is no longer a woman who escaped and survived. She is recast as a custodian of suffering. A keeper of records. A guardian of loss. Someone whose value lies in preserving pain so others can learn from it.
This is echoed, chillingly, in the moment with her mother.
June is affirmed not as someone who deserves a life, but as someone who must remain a warrior. A woman whose worth is tied to endurance, not joy. To service, not fulfillment. To staying in the fight, not stepping out of it.
Atwood's Offred survived long enough to tell the story, and then disappeared. A woman whose resistance did not become her identity. A woman who was allowed to step into uncertainty, into love, into life beyond usefulness.
And The Testaments makes the ending even clearer: June goes underground. Nick goes underground. They survive. They are reunited. Not because they were pure. Not because they served forever. But because love outlasted the regime.
“Love is stronger than death” is not a metaphor in Atwood’s world. It is a structural truth.
By turning Nichole/Holly into a moral anchor instead of a living outcome, the finale replaces liberation with obligation. It tells women that even when they escape, even when they save something real, they are not allowed to rest. That motherhood is destiny. That freedom must always be justified through sacrifice. That desire can create the future, but must then be disavowed to make that future acceptable.
This is not feminist. It is patriarchal logic.
And it leaves us with a finale that does the one thing Atwood never did: it denies women the right to live in what they saved.
Creative Vitality: 💉
The finale confuses exhaustion for resolution. Instead of culmination, it delivers collapse disguised as calm. Scenes are arranged to suggest meaning rather than generate it — reunions without reckoning, monologues without interior tension, liberation without aftermath. The story does not end so much as it runs out of nerve.
Feminist Integrity: ❤️🔥
This is where the adaptation fully severs itself from Atwood. Womanhood is collapsed into service. Motherhood is sanctified as destiny. Desire is treated as something a “grown” woman outgrows rather than integrates. Autonomy is redefined as sacrifice-for-others rather than authorship-of-self. The finale does not liberate June.
Narrative Coherence: 🧩🧩
The ending only functions if you accept denial as clarity and erasure as closure. Nick’s arc is retroactively falsified. Holly’s meaning is rewritten. June’s emotional reality is contradicted by what the episode itself keeps showing us.
Emotional Pulse: 🫀🫀
Blunted, not absent. Grief is everywhere, but it is never allowed to metabolize. June is visibly haunted, flattened by loss she is not permitted to name. The show mistakes stoicism for healing and motion for resolution. What remains is a low-grade ache the narrative refuses to touch, because touching it would unravel the ending.
Performances & Symbolism: 🎭🎭🎭
Elisabeth Moss plays denial, not peace, and that may be the most honest thing in the hour. The symbolism is heavy-handed and increasingly hollow: freedom speeches without autonomy, motherhood as moral endpoint, resistance as endless labor. The final image reaches for Atwood’s iconography without earning it, mistaking reference for meaning.
Final Series Prognosis: A story that mistook survival for virtue and discipline for freedom. Atwood let her disappear into life. The show strands her in motion forever.
What ultimately fails in this adaptation is not nerve, ambition, or even coherence. It is understanding.
Somewhere after Season 4, the series stops telling Margaret Atwood’s story and begins telling a different one under the same name. A story where endurance becomes righteousness, suffering becomes proof, and women are deemed “free” only when they are useful, restrained, and stripped of dangerous desire.
By the end, June Osborne is no longer allowed to want. She is allowed to serve. She is no longer permitted love with consequence, only memory rendered safe. Her contradictions are not held. They are managed. Her grief is not explored. It is operationalized. Her autonomy is not honored. It is redirected.
Freedom, in this finale, means endless vigilance. Endless sacrifice. Endless readiness to leave again. Resistance without an endpoint. A woman who survives must remain on duty forever — guarding children, guarding memory, guarding the future — while never fully inhabiting the present.
Atwood’s ending offered ambiguity as liberation. The show offers certainty as captivity.
And nowhere is that betrayal clearer than in what the series does to Nick and Nichole.
Nick’s erasure is not just a character failure. It is a thematic one. He embodied Atwood’s most uncomfortable truth: that love under fascism is morally untidy, that survival and complicity coexist, that resistance often looks like proximity rather than purity. By turning him into a disposable sacrifice, the show eliminates the gray space where its most honest questions once lived.
Nichole’s redefinition is even more damning. In Atwood’s canon, she is the future not because she must be protected forever, but because she grows up outside the system, because forbidden love produces something that outlives tyranny. The adaptation strips her of that meaning and turns her into justification for permanent maternal sacrifice. The child becomes obligation, not proof. Legacy replaces life.
June herself is left in the worst possible place: not dead, not free, not healed, but frozen. Locked into motion so she never has to stop. Locked into duty so she never has to grieve honestly. Locked into denial so the story never has to answer the question it refuses to face: what does it mean that she loved him, that he chose her, and that she let him die?
The show cannot answer that without unraveling its ending. So it avoids it. And avoidance becomes the final thesis.
In doing so, The Handmaid’s Tale commits the one sin Atwood never did: it punishes women for wanting more than survival. It teaches that desire must be disciplined, love must be relinquished, and autonomy is something earned through sacrifice rather than claimed through choice.
That is not feminist clarity.
The prognosis, then, is terminal. Not because the story is dark, but because it no longer knows what it is diagnosing. It mistakes endurance for virtue. Motion for meaning. Silence for maturity. And it leaves its protagonist trapped in a future where she is always useful and never whole.
But for those who stayed with this story because of Nick, because of the mess, the grayness, the belief that love could survive even here, there is something the show cannot erase.
In Atwood’s canon, love is stronger than death. Nick survives underground. Nichole grows up free. June disappears not into service, but into life. They find each other again. Canonically.
That canon matters more than this ending ever will.
Which is why I will not be watching The Testaments. This adaptation forfeited my trust long before the finale, and I have no interest in following it further into self-mythology.
And to those of you who followed this series, who argued, grieved, hoped, and refused to let the story flatten what it once knew how to hold: thank you. You were never wrong to believe that love mattered here.
Atwood knew it did.
And her canon, unlike television, is forever.
Image Credit: @trademarkblue
