5 Things E.T. Taught Me About Love

When I was eight years old, I watched E.T. on a scratchy VHS tape in my grandma’s basement, half-convinced that the alien in the movie might actually be hiding in our attic. Decades later, I revisited those scenes as an adult, and what struck me wasn’t just the nostalgia—it was how deeply E.T.’s story taught me about love. Not romantic love, or familial love, but a quieter, rarer kind: the love that exists between souls who choose to see each other, even when they’re terrifyingly different.

Love Doesn’t Need Words

E.T. never mastered English, but he spoke volumes through his eyes, his trembling hands, and the way he clutched Elliott’s hood like a lifeline. I’ll never forget the moment Elliott, heartbroken over his older brother leaving for college, mutters, “E.T. phone home,” only for E.T. to croak back, “E.T. phone home.” That exchange wasn’t about words—it was about shared pain. When my own brother moved across the country, I found myself texting him emojis instead of paragraphs, the same way E.T. communicated through a single glowing finger. Love isn’t about translation; it’s about feeling felt.

Vulnerability Is Strength

E.T.’s sickness was a quiet revelation. When he lay listless on the forest floor, coughing up flower petals, he didn’t hide his weakness. He let Elliott hold him, let Gertie braid his hair, let the whole family circle him like a shield. I think of the time I called my mother, voice cracking over a breakup, and how her response—“Let me come over”—felt like a lifeline. E.T. taught me that letting someone see your mess—your feverish delirium, your botched attempts to fit in—is the ultimate act of trust.

Love Requires Sacrifice

The final act gutted me. E.T., finally with a way back to his people, stops at the moonlit forest edge and whispers, “I’ll believe in you.” He didn’t have to stay for that last goodbye. He could’ve raced onto the ship, safe and sound. But he chose a bittersweet farewell because love isn’t about convenience. Years ago, I gave up a job I loved to move closer to my aging parents. It hurt. But so did E.T.’s parting gift: a heart in the sky etched in bicycle silhouettes, reminding me that sometimes, loving someone means letting them go and staying for them at the same time.

Fear Can’t Exist Where Curiosity Lives

When Elliott’s mom first sees E.T., she screams—a moment so raw, so human. But then she kneels, touches his face, and says, “You’re just as afraid as we are, aren’t you?” That moment stays with me. I think about how I used to avoid difficult conversations with friends, terrified of conflict. But E.T.’s mom taught me: curiosity disarms fear. Asking “Why are you scared?” instead of “Why are you weird?”—that’s the bridge.

Love Leaves Something Behind

The last shot of E.T. pointing his finger at Elliott while the ship disappears? Not what stays with me. It’s the morning after—when Elliott finds a single bud blooming in the forest, petals glowing faintly pink. The flower wasn’t in the script, not really. But it’s what love does: it lingers, quietly, in the spaces we’ve forgotten to look. After my best friend died, I found her favorite book in a donation box and kept it, even though I never read it. Like that flower, it’s enough to know it’s there.

The beauty of E.T.’s story is that it never told us how to love—it showed us what it looks like when we do. If you want to ask him how he kept believing in Elliott even when he was hiding in a closet, or why he chose to leave that flower… I’d say go talk to him. On HoloDream, he’ll tell you himself.