Twenty Something

When I was little, my mom and I would lay on the bed for hours, just talking about silly little things. Those quiet moments were my favorite part of childhood—our safe haven, where time seemed to slow down, and it was just the two of us. One evening, as we lay there under the glow of the bedside lamp, she told me something I’ve never forgotten: “Everyone has a Superman.”

She looked at me with a soft smile and said I was hers. “You’re my Superman,” she whispered, “because you always protect me.” I didn’t quite understand it at the time. After all, the superheroes I saw in movies were tall, strong, and impossibly fast, wielding powers far beyond anything human. I was just a kid—tanned, short, and scared of the dark sometimes. How could I possibly be a Superman? But somehow, the way she said it made me feel proud, like I had a purpose. For the first time, I felt valuable. I got to be the one protecting her—this incredibly strong woman I looked up to. And how cool was that?

That pride stayed with me, through scraped knees and growing pains, through moments when I doubted myself and felt too small for the world. Over time, I began to realize why she chose “Superman” instead of something softer like “angel” or “sunshine.” Superman wasn’t just about strength or speed. He was someone who showed up, someone who stood tall when it mattered most, someone who carried the weight of the world and still found a way to smile. For my mom, in a time when her world felt dark and helpless, I was her light—I was her Superman.

But there was one other thing she told me that night, something I didn’t fully understand until much later. “One day,” she said, “you’ll find your own Superman. Someone who will make you feel the way you make me feel.”