Book Characters for Gen Z: From Dreamers to Rebels - Sykalo Evgen 2025

The Psychology of Character: A Comprehensive Analysis of Ben De Backer in I Wish You All the Best

I’m halfway through I Wish You All the Best by Mason Deaver, and I’m already wrecked. Not in a performative, BookTok-tears way, but in that quiet, gut-punch way where you’re reading on a bus and have to stare out the window to process. Ben De Backer, the nonbinary teen at the heart of this story, is a character who feels like they’ve been ripped from the group chat and plopped into a novel. They’re not a hero, not a symbol, not some polished YA archetype. They’re just… Ben. Awkward, anxious, and carrying the kind of emotional baggage that makes you want to hug them and scream at the world on their behalf. Let’s dive into the psychology of Ben De Backer—not with a clipboard and a DSM-5, but with the messy, obsessive energy of someone who’s been up all night thinking about this book.

The Weight of Being Seen

Ben’s story starts with a betrayal so raw it feels like a slap. They come out as nonbinary to their parents, hoping for—well, not a parade, but maybe a shred of understanding. Instead, they’re kicked out of their house, barefoot in the North Carolina winter, with nothing but a payphone and a sister they haven’t spoken to in a decade. It’s the kind of scene that could’ve been melodramatic, but Deaver plays it with brutal restraint. You don’t see the fight; you feel the aftermath. Ben’s standing there, shivering, and you’re right there with them, heart pounding, thinking, How do people do this to their own kid?

What’s fascinating about Ben’s psychology is how their identity isn’t just a plot point—it’s a lens through which they navigate every interaction. Being nonbinary in a world that loves its binaries is like trying to play chess on a checkers board. Ben’s not out at their new school, and you can feel the tension in every pronoun, every gendered assumption. They’re hypervigilant, always scanning for threats, which tracks with their anxiety disorder. It’s not just “teen angst.” It’s the kind of anxiety that makes you flinch when someone says “ladies and gentlemen” because you know you don’t fit either box. Deaver nails this without preaching—Ben’s fear isn’t a lecture; it’s a lived reality.

I keep thinking about a moment early in the book where Ben’s sister, Hannah, takes them shopping for clothes. She heads straight for the men’s section, and Ben freezes. It’s such a small thing, but it’s everything. That split-second assumption, even from someone trying to help, is a reminder of how the world sees Ben—or doesn’t. It’s like being a ghost in your own life, visible only in fragments. And yet, Ben doesn’t lash out. They swallow it, move on, because that’s what survival looks like. It’s not heroic; it’s exhausting.

Nathan: The Sun in Ben’s Orbit

Enter Nathan Allan, the human equivalent of a golden retriever who’s read too many rom-com scripts. He’s the classmate who decides to befriend Ben, and his energy is so bright it’s almost suspicious. Like, who is this guy? Is he for real? But that’s the thing about Nathan—he’s not a manic pixie dream boy. He’s flawed, funny, and just the right amount of annoying. He’s the kid who’d post a TikTok about his terrible cereal choices and somehow make it charming.

Ben’s relationship with Nathan is where the book’s heart beats loudest. At first, Ben’s like, Nope, I’m not here for friends. They’re too raw, too guarded, still reeling from their parents’ rejection. But Nathan’s persistence chips away at that armor. There’s a scene where they’re sitting on Nathan’s roof, stargazing, and Nathan admits he’s just making up constellation names because the light pollution’s too bad to see anything real. It’s such a nothing moment, but it’s perfect. Ben laughs, and you realize it’s the first time they’ve felt light in ages. That’s what Nathan does—he’s not fixing Ben; he’s just there, offering a space where Ben can exist without apology.

Psychologically, Nathan’s role in Ben’s life is huge. He’s not just a love interest; he’s a mirror showing Ben they’re worth loving. For someone with Ben’s anxiety and history of rejection, that’s seismic. It’s not about grand gestures—Nathan’s not climbing a Ferris wheel with a boombox. It’s the quiet stuff: remembering Ben’s pronouns, not pushing when Ben clams up, being a steady presence when Ben’s brain is screaming run. It’s attachment theory in action, but Deaver never makes it feel like a textbook. It’s just two kids figuring it out, one rooftop at a time.

The Sister Who Shows Up

Hannah, Ben’s estranged sister, is another piece of the puzzle. She left home ten years ago, abandoning Ben to their parents’ suffocating control. When she takes Ben in after they’re kicked out, it’s not a fairy-tale reunion. There’s love, sure, but it’s messy, laced with guilt and unspoken questions. Why did she leave? Why didn’t she reach out? Ben’s feelings about Hannah are a tangle of gratitude and resentment, and Deaver lets that complexity breathe.

There’s a scene where Hannah and Ben finally talk about her absence, and it’s like watching two people tiptoe across a minefield. Hannah’s trying to make up for lost time, but Ben’s not ready to forgive. It’s raw, real, and doesn’t resolve neatly. That’s what makes it so good—family isn’t a Hallmark card. It’s a negotiation, a slow rebuilding of trust. Hannah’s not perfect; she slips up with gendered assumptions, but she’s trying. And Ben, for all their hurt, starts to see her as human, not just the sister who left.

This dynamic hits hard because it’s not just about Ben’s nonbinary identity—it’s about the universal ache of wanting family to get you. Ben’s psychology here is layered: they’re grieving the parents they lost, navigating a new family with Hannah and her husband, Thomas, and wrestling with whether they owe their parents forgiveness. It’s a lot for an 18-year-old, and Deaver doesn’t shy away from the weight of it. Ben’s not a saint; they’re just trying to survive.

The Art of Staying Invisible

Ben’s a painter, and their art is more than a hobby—it’s a lifeline. There’s something about the way Deaver describes Ben’s painting scenes that feels like peeking into their soul. When Ben’s in the art room, they’re not just slapping paint on canvas; they’re processing. The colors, the strokes, the focus—it’s where Ben can be fully themselves without fear of judgment. It’s no accident that their art teacher, Mrs. Liu, becomes a quiet ally, giving Ben a space to exist.

This is where I get a little obsessed. Ben’s art is a metaphor for their identity—vibrant, messy, not easily categorized. They’re not painting to impress anyone; they’re painting to survive. It’s like how some of us scroll through X at 2 a.m., looking for a thread that makes us feel less alone. Ben’s art is their X, their way of shouting into the void without saying a word. And when they start sharing that art with others—like Nathan or Mrs. Liu—it’s a small act of courage, like posting your truth online and waiting for the likes to roll in (or the trolls, let’s be real).

The Mess of Mental Health

Let’s talk about Ben’s anxiety, because it’s not a side note—it’s central. Deaver doesn’t romanticize it or turn it into a quirky character trait. Ben’s panic attacks are visceral: heart racing, chest tight, the world closing in. There’s a scene at a party where Ben tries to drink to fit in, and it backfires hard. The alcohol hits, the room spins, and suddenly they’re spiraling. It’s not just a bad night; it’s a reminder of how fragile Ben’s sense of safety is.

What I love is how Deaver handles Ben’s therapy. It’s not a magic fix—Ben’s therapist isn’t some wise sage with all the answers. But she’s there, helping Ben unpack the trauma of their parents’ rejection and the constant fear of being misgendered. Therapy in YA novels can feel like a plot device, but here it’s just part of Ben’s life, like brushing their teeth or avoiding Nathan’s terrible cereal. It’s a slow, uneven process, and that realism makes Ben’s growth feel earned.

Why Ben Matters

Look, I could sit here and dissect Ben’s character arc like it’s a frog in bio class, but that’s not the point. Ben matters because they’re not a trope. They’re not the Tragic Queer Kid or the Inspirational Outsider. They’re just a person—flawed, funny, scared, hopeful—trying to figure out who they are in a world that’s not always kind. Deaver’s genius is in making Ben’s story specific (nonbinary teen, North Carolina, 2019) and universal (wanting to be seen, loved, understood).

Reading Ben’s journey is like scrolling through a feed of raw, unfiltered posts—some make you laugh, some make you cry, some make you want to throw your phone across the room. It’s not a perfect book; sometimes the pacing drags, and I wanted more from secondary characters like Mariam, the nonbinary YouTuber who feels like a lifeline for Ben. But those quibbles fade next to the emotional truth of Ben’s story. They’re not just a character; they’re a reminder that identity is a process, not a destination. And honestly? That’s the kind of story we need more of—messy, human, and unapologetically real.

So yeah, I’m still thinking about Ben, weeks after closing the book. They’re out there, painting, falling for Nathan, maybe even forgiving Hannah a little. And I’m rooting for them, not because they’re a hero, but because they’re Ben. And that’s enough.