Let’s start with the premise of this article: “Study uses superhero films to discuss mental health with children.” On the surface, it sounds like the kind of headline you scroll past on a slow news day, sandwiched between cat videos and weather updates. But this one stopped me in my tracks because, well, it’s brilliant. And kind of obvious.
According to the study, researchers are using the trials and tribulations of superheroes to help kids grapple with mental health challenges. The idea is as simple as it is profound: “Superhero films provide a relatable lens through which children can explore complex emotions, resilience, and self-identity.” It’s hard to argue with that. After all, what is Spider-Man if not a masterclass in the devastating burden of guilt and responsibility?
Reading this took me down a rabbit hole of my own mental health origin story—a saga that probably began long before I realized I was battling the Joker inside my own brain. As a kid, I didn’t have the language to articulate what was happening. Anxiety was just “being nervous,” and depression wasn’t even on the radar. But superheroes? Oh, I understood them perfectly.
Batman didn’t wallow in self-pity when tragedy struck; he turned his grief into a crusade for justice. Sure, he could’ve used a therapist instead of a Batcave, but he got the job done. And Peter Parker? The guy was juggling high school, a day job, and fighting crime, all while carrying the weight of Uncle Ben’s death on his shoulders. If that’s not a metaphor for trying to balance life with mental health struggles, I don’t know what is.
The article highlights how superhero stories resonate because they’re inherently human, even when the characters are superhuman. “Through the lens of these narratives, children can see that everyone struggles, even heroes.” That’s such a powerful message. It’s easy to idolize these characters, but what makes them compelling isn’t their powers—it’s their pain.
Take Tony Stark, for instance. He’s a billionaire genius with a suit of armor, but beneath the quips and bravado is a man battling PTSD and self-destructive tendencies. And let’s not forget the Hulk, who’s basically a walking embodiment of suppressed rage and uncontrollable emotion.
These stories don’t just entertain; they teach us that it’s okay to struggle. They normalize the idea that being human—flaws and all—is part of the journey.
I’ll admit it: my love for superhero stories runs deep, and it’s bled into my writing more than once. If you’ve read my books (Demons Within, Cocaine Cola, The Dish Pit, Serpents in the Sand), you’ve probably noticed a thing or two about flawed protagonists and battles that are as internal as they are external. That’s no coincidence. Comic books and superhero movies taught me that even the most damaged characters can still save the day—and maybe themselves in the process.
That’s why I love this initiative. It’s not just about showing kids they’re not alone; it’s about giving them tools to face their own villains, whether those villains are bullies, self-doubt, or something else entirely.
The article closes with this: “Superheroes are a way of exploring humanity at its best and worst, providing a safe space to discuss complex emotions and challenges.” I couldn’t have said it better myself.
I’m lucky enough to be in a place now where I can look back on my mental health struggles and see them for what they are—my own battles against an unseen nemesis. I don’t always win, but I’ve learned to keep showing up, cape or no cape.
So here’s to the superheroes: the ones on screen, the ones in our lives, and the ones staring back at us in the mirror. We’re all fighting something, but with resilience, support, and maybe a dash of spandex-inspired courage, we can keep going.
Here’s the link to the article that inspired this reflection: Study uses superhero films to discuss mental health with children.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to re-watch The Dark Knight for the 47th time—purely for research purposes, of course.
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