The Cross, the Cape, and the Lie of Watching
Spandex, scripture, or scar tissue—it all points to you.
Wonder Woman, Superman, and the stories that go with them.
They were never just stories.
Not if they stayed with you.
Not if you remember where you were the first time you saw someone lift something too heavy for one body to carry.
Or when you watched someone hold a line—not because they had to, but because they could.
These characters were designed as entertainment, yes.
But sometimes, when the soul is looking for something, even entertainment becomes sacred.
The myth lives because something in you recognized it.
You didn’t need to believe they were real.
You just needed to believe that kind of courage was possible.
That someone could stand in the middle of chaos and not flinch.
That someone could see everything falling apart, and still choose to show up.
Not as fantasy.
Not as a metaphor.
But as a prompt.
Because that’s what these stories really are.
A way in. A way through. A mirror you didn’t know you were looking into.
And whether or not you grew up in a religious household—whether or not anyone ever handed you the language of sacraments—you already knew how to take in something holy.
You just didn’t call it that.
You had your own kind of communion.
Maybe it came on a screen. Maybe it came from a toy, or a sketch, or a Halloween costume you wore until the seams fell apart. Maybe it was GI Joe. Maybe Santa.
But it fed you.
And it gave you something to reach for when you didn’t have anything else.
This is how myth works.
It moves through the body before the mind ever catches up.
And if it worked on you—if it reached you then—then it’s not enough to admire it from a distance or forget about it.
Not anymore.
This isn’t about performance.
This isn’t about the t-shirt or the tattoo or the clever line quoted at the right moment.
This is about embodiment.
About living in a way that doesn’t have to reference the ethic, because you become it.
Because if you believe in the sacred, you don’t need to explain it.
And I expect to see it in how you live.
Not just when you’re being watched.
Not just when you’re being praised.
But when it’s inconvenient.
When it’s quiet.
When no one is clapping for you.
And if you don’t use religious language, if myth is your language instead—then this still applies to you.
If these characters live in your imagination, they also live in your responsibility.
They aren’t here to decorate your identity.
They’re here to remind you what it looks like to show up.
And not just once. Every day.
Again and again and again.
Even if you’re tired.
Even if you’re scared.
Even if you didn’t grow up with anyone showing you how.
Especially then.
Because maybe the reason Wonder Woman moved you wasn’t just her strength.
Maybe it was because your mother didn’t feel safe.
Or because no one ever taught you how to hold your ground without hardening.
Maybe the reason Superman mattered is because your father left something out.
Maybe he disappeared. Or stayed in the room but never really saw you.
And you needed to believe someone could see through everything—and stay.
That doesn’t make you broken.
That doesn’t mean you need to become something you’re not.
That doesn’t mean the answer is to escape your body, or erase your story, or turn yourself into a symbol for someone else’s confusion.
It means your soul was looking for help.
And it found something it could hold onto.
That’s not dysfunction. That’s intelligence.
And now that you’re not a child anymore, the story is asking something new of you.
To stop watching.
To stop lying.
To stop waiting.
To become the thing you once needed.
Not perfectly.
Not all at once.
But deliberately.
With intention.
With reverence for what formed you—with a willingness to live beyond it.
Because the myth only matters if you let it move through you.
The cross around your neck doesn’t mean you carry it.
And the cape in your closet doesn’t mean you know how to land.
But you’re here.
And that means you still can.