My superpower

“With great power comes great responsibility.” - Uncle Ben

I always wanted to be Spider-Man as a kid. To shoot webs from my wrists and flip through the air like nothing could touch me. What I didn’t realize back then is that we all grow into our own kind of superpowers. Mine didn’t come all at once it built itself quietly over time, through situations, through growing up, through being the kid who always sat alone in the back seat, watching everything but never really being part of it.

My superpower has always been the ability to be alone without feeling lonely. Even in a room full of people I know, I don’t feel that emptiness. Not because I’m cold, far from it. If anything, I feel too much. I just don’t show it. I’ve learned how to hold everything in so well that it almost feels natural now.

It’s because I’ve always kept a distance. Even with the people closest to me, I build this invisible barrier not physical, but mental and emotional. Not six feet apart like during COVID, but something deeper, something harder to cross. A quiet understanding that no one really gets too close, not completely.

I’ve never liked expressing my emotions. And when I do, it never goes beyond a few lines. I rehearse it in my head a hundred times, then cut it down to almost nothing. Part of it is guilt, I hate the idea of making someone carry something heavy because of me. I don’t want to be “too much,” or the reason someone feels uncomfortable or stuck. So I pull back, creating space so neither of us has to sit in that discomfort.

And yet, I’ll always tell others to speak up, no matter what. I’ll sit there and listen for hours, making sure they feel heard, understood, safe. But when it comes to me, it’s different. Speaking feels like unraveling. Like losing control of something I’ve spent years trying to keep contained. Being alone is easier. It quiets the overthinking, the constant second guessing of what to say, what to do, how to escape before I say too much.

Don’t get me wrong I love the people in my life. I appreciate them more than I can explain. They feel like family, even when they aren’t. I notice the little things about them, the way they talk, the way they laugh, the way they trust me with pieces of themselves. And I hold onto that. I really do.

But I think something in my childhood wired me this way. Which turned my “superpower” into a double edged sword. I’d rather carry everything on my own than risk making someone feel burdened by me. I convince myself it’s easier that way, safer that way.

And maybe it is. But it also means I miss out on something. On being known the same way I know others. On being understood without having to shrink my feelings into something small and manageable.

I do open up sometimes, but only when I feel like it won’t affect the other person too much, like my feelings are light enough to not leave a mark. Being alone for so long has made me emotionally independent, but also emotionally distant. Even when I’m surrounded by people I care about, I still feel the spaces between us. The quiet gaps that never fully close, no matter how much I try to ignore them.

But maybe that’s where my superpower is still changing.

Maybe it was never meant to just be about being alone without feeling lonely. Maybe it’s about learning how to let people in without feeling like I’m losing myself in the process. Maybe it’s about realizing that being understood isn’t a burden, it’s something I deserve too.

Because even Spider-Man had people he trusted, people who saw him beyond the mask.

And maybe, one day, I’ll learn how to take mine off too.