Superheroes
What That Says About Purpose
There was a time in my life when I was obsessed with superheroes—so obsessed that I was genuinely furious when my family refused to name my baby brother "Superman."
"He’s just a baby," they argued. "Superboy or Superbaby would be more accurate."
I stared at them in disbelief. "What kind of woman would kiss a man named Superboy? Do you even think? He’ll grow up and be a man!"
Yes, for some reason, my six-year-old self was already worried about my baby brother’s future dating prospects.
Years later, I got my revenge by telling him this story. His response? "Hold on—so there was a chance I could’ve been Superman?! Thanks a lot, Mom. You ruined my life!"
But this isn’t really about naming regrets.
The truth is, my obsession with heroes wasn’t about their powers, their cool costumes, or even their epic battles. It was about one thing: they had a purpose.
They knew exactly what they were meant to do. Their job was clear—defeat evil, save the world, fulfill the prophecy. No existential crises, no soul-searching. Just "With great power comes great responsibility," and boom—life figured out.
Meanwhile, in the real world? No such luck.
As a kid, when adults asked, "What do you want to be when you grow up?" I never had an answer. I’d watch cartoons reassuring kids, "Don’t worry, it’ll come to you!" So I waited, secretly hoping for my Peter Parker moment—some life-altering event that would snap everything into place.
Maybe a radioactive spider? A mysterious letter from Hogwarts? A cosmic accident granting me destiny?
Instead, what showed up was depression.
And suddenly, not only did I not know what to do with my life—I couldn’t even picture a future. So much for prophecies.
Eventually, I stopped watching superhero stories altogether. The envy turned into resentment. Why should they get clarity while I fumbled in the dark? I traded capes and battles for slice-of-life stories—something grounding, something real.
The Villain Realization
I’m very aware a hero’s life isn’t easy. The weight of that responsibility? I’m not sure I could carry it.
Maybe I’m better suited to be a villain.
Sometimes, I get the Joker. People are exhausting. Systems are broken. Why not burn it all down?
Heroes and villains both come from tragedy—the difference is how they respond. Villains are just hurt people who gave up. No one reached out a hand. No one showed them another way.
And honestly? I relate.
I wasn’t guided. I was neglected. No one helped me figure out my future—just "Why can’t you decide?" and "You have one year left—pick something!"
When I couldn’t, my parents chose for me: med school.
Maybe it’s not so bad, I thought. It’s close to being a hero, right?
But everyone I met there had the same story—forced into it, yet somehow at peace with it. Not me. It felt like playing a rigged game, knowing I’d never win. There were moments of coolness, sure, but the overall experience? Trash.
And the worst part? I couldn’t leave.
After graduation, I took a gap year. Slowly, I started revisiting old comforts—like Generator Rex, a childhood favorite.
Rewatching it now, I finally understood why I loved it.
Rex wasn’t some happy, destined hero. He was stuck. The only one who could save the world, yet he hated it—skipping orders, sneaking off to prom mid-crisis. His life wasn’t glamorous. It was obligation.
It hit me then: Heroism isn’t about destiny.
It’s about doing the right thing even when you don’t want to.
But here’s the thing—I don’t want to do the right thing. Not anymore.
I’m tired.
I’m tired of pretending there’s some higher purpose. I’m tired of forcing myself into roles that don’t fit. I’m tired of the pressure to keep going when everything feels meaningless.
Maybe that’s the real difference between heroes and the rest of us.
They keep fighting.
… the end?