I’m (NOT) Batman.

Turns out, the quiet, broody type wasn’t me. I was just tired.

Growing up, there were only two superheroes who actually meant something to me—Batman and Spider-Man. Everyone else was fun to watch, sure, but they didn’t stay with me after the movie ended. Batman and Spider-Man did. They felt personal in a weird way, even though their lives were nothing like mine. I think a lot of guys my age would probably say the same.

Like most guys, I thought I was more of a Batman guy. And I stuck to that belief for years. There’s this unspoken thing with boys and Batman—you look at him and you see everything you think you’re supposed to be. The silent type. Broody. Sharp. Always in control. A genius, a billionaire, a loner with a messed-up past who somehow turns all of that into power. It’s the fantasy, right? The idea that if life hits you hard enough, you’ll come out of it with a six-pack, a cave full of tech, and the ability to keep everyone at arm’s length while still being “the good guy.”

It’s kind of ridiculous, looking back. But at the time, it made perfect sense.

Especially when you’re a teenager, or in your early twenties, trying to figure out how to be a man. Batman gives you a version that feels safe. You don’t have to talk. You don’t have to explain your feelings. You just bottle everything up, dress it in black, and call it strength. You tell yourself that silence is power. That if you can just be detached enough, maybe nothing can really touch you.

And I bought into that. I really did. I told myself I was like Batman. I even felt proud of it.

But somewhere along the way—quietly, slowly—that version of strength stopped feeling like strength. It just felt like distance. From people. From myself.

I still like Batman, sure. But I don’t see myself in him anymore. Not really.

Instead, I’ve found myself thinking more and more about Spider-Man. Especially Andrew Garfield’s version. There’s something about that portrayal that hits closer to home. He wasn’t cool in the traditional sense. He didn’t have it all figured out. He was awkward. Emotional. A little too hopeful, a little too intense. He kept messing up. He let people in. He got hurt. He showed it. You can see it in his eyes—even when he’s joking around, even when he’s in the suit. He feels everything.

And for some reason, I couldn’t stop thinking about that.

Because I’ve had days where I felt like I was giving everything I had, but it still wasn’t enough. Days where I blamed myself for things that went wrong, even if they weren’t entirely my fault. Days where I tried to act normal around people, even when I felt completely off inside. And through all that, I didn’t want to shut down.

That’s Peter Parker.

He isn’t above the pain. He carries it with him. And somehow, despite everything, he still manages to show up for the people around him. That’s not weakness. That’s courage in the real sense, exhausting but true.

There’s one scene from The Amazing Spider-Man 2 that has stayed with me, the ending where he loses Gwen. It broke something inside when I first watched it. Not just because it was gut wrenching, but because of how he reacted to it afterward. How he shut down, how he disappeared, how it took him so long to come back. And when he finally did, he wasn’t some unstoppable, reborn hero. He was just… trying again. Quietly, hesitantly. That felt real.

That’s what real life feels like sometimes. You don’t bounce back in a clean, powerful arc. You just carry your shit and try again.

I think a younger version of me would’ve seen that as weakness. But now, I think that kind of effort—the showing up despite everything—is the hardest thing to do. It’s not dramatic or loud or heroic in the way movies usually are. It’s just human.

And it made me realise something: I don’t want to be Batman anymore.

Not because he’s a bad character. I still respect him. But I’ve started to see that a lot of what I admired in him came from a place of wanting to protect myself. Wanting to be above pain, above chaos, above mess. Wanting to be untouchable. And maybe that’s not strength. Maybe that’s just fear in a really good disguise.

Spider-Man, on the other hand, lets life get to him. He breaks down. He messes up. He can’t always save the people he loves. He doesn’t have the answers. But he keeps trying, anyway. He still cracks jokes, still helps people, still shows up for his city. There’s a kind of real courage in that. Not the type that makes headlines. The type you live with, day to day.

It’s weird how long it took me to notice the difference.

For years, I thought being strong meant being distant. Being unreadable. I tried to become that—someone who didn’t show too much, didn’t feel too much, didn’t need too much. But all that really did was make me feel more alone. I didn’t become Batman. I just became quiet and tired and disconnected.

And now, looking back, I realise I was always more like Spider-Man. I just didn’t want to admit it. Maybe because Spider-Man looks too soft at first glance. Too emotional, too tangled in relationships, too unsure of himself. But that’s also what makes him real. And relatable. And brave.

Most of us are carrying something we don’t talk about. Regret, grief, confusion, heartbreak—whatever it is. And we keep waking up, going to work, making awkward jokes with our friends, helping out where we can, holding it all together in whatever way we can.

That’s what I see in Spider-Man. That’s what most of us do. And I think there’s something beautiful about that.

I used to think Batman was who I needed to become to survive. Now I think I survived in spite of trying to be him.

And maybe the version of me that keeps showing up—tired, unsure, sometimes broken, but still trying—that version deserves more credit.

We all have a little Peter Parker in us. And maybe that’s not a bad thing.