When I was a teenager, I remember a woman at church saying she cried through every Rocky movie and blamed it on menopause. At the time, I smiled politely, filed it under “middle-aged lady things,” and moved on with my teenaged indifference.
But now? I get it.
Except for me, it’s not Rocky.
It’s Marvel.
I can’t make it through a single Marvel story without crying. Not one. Doesn’t matter if it’s a high-stakes final battle or a quiet character moment about grief and identity — something always gets me. Every time. I’ve practically turned into Pavlov’s dog. I hear that opening Marvel logo sound, and suddenly I’m misty-eyed, clutching a blanket, whispering, “Not again…”
Last week it was WandaVision. Actually, not just the finale — the whole series did me in. The grief, the memory, the ache of love wrapped in sitcoms? That show was therapy in superhero form. The moment Vision said, “What is grief, if not love persevering?” I just sat there and let the tears fall like someone had pulled the emotional fire alarm in my soul.
Tonight? We saw the new release of Thunderbolts*. And sure enough, there I was again — blurry-eyed, trying to casually wipe my face with my popcorn napkin like it was allergies or something.
And if I thought I’d be safe with a Guardians storyline? Nope.
The Gamora arc gets me every time.
Here’s this woman, raised by a tyrant, trained to be a weapon, taught that love was weakness. And over time, across multiple films, she chooses something else. She learns how to be soft without being small. She learns how to trust. How to belong. Not because someone rescued her — but because she chose to be different.
She chose people.
She chose found family.
The kind that walks with you as you unlearn who the world told you to be.
That’s the secret behind all the emotional gut-punches in Marvel — they’re not just about powers or planets. They’re about found family. The kind you don’t inherit, but the kind you choose.
It’s Peter Parker clinging to Tony Stark like a son trying not to lose a father.
It’s Wanda trying to hold on to the idea of motherhood inside a made-up world because her heart couldn’t bear any more loss.
It’s Rocket finally allowing himself to be loved after believing no one could.
Marvel doesn’t just tell epic stories. It tells human ones — tucked into armor and chaos, but built on people who are hurting and healing together.
And then there’s Black Panther: Wakanda Forever.
That whole film is soaked in grief — but also soaked in love. Shuri, trying to carry the weight of a kingdom and the death of her brother. Queen Ramonda, standing tall in pain and power. Nakia, choosing quiet service over ceremony. M’Baku, shifting from rival to gentle mentor without needing applause for it.
Near the end, Shuri is face-to-face with Namor, burning with pain, rage, and the desire for vengeance. And she has every reason to destroy him. Every reason to let her grief harden into cruelty.
And she doesn’t.
She chooses mercy.
She chooses a new legacy.
And that, I think, is the truest power of found family:
They don’t just help you survive — they give you the space to become someone new.
Someone softer.
Someone braver.
Someone who leads differently because they were loved differently.
And then — there’s that one scene in Avengers: Endgame.
The one I can’t ever seem to shake.
The battlefield is chaos. Peter Parker is holding the gauntlet, eyes wide, completely overwhelmed. He’s just a kid again — right back to where he started, wondering how in the world he’s supposed to survive this.
Captain Marvel lands beside him like a bolt of starlight. And Peter, in classic Peter fashion, stammers:
“I don’t know how you’re gonna get through all that.”
Then Okoye steps forward. Calm. Certain.
“She’s got help.”
And suddenly — they’re all there. All the women. All the warriors. Walking shoulder to shoulder without hesitation. Not because one of them couldn’t handle it. But because she shouldn’t have to.
It’s 45 seconds of screen time. But it carries the emotional weight of a lifetime.
Because it’s not about spectacle.
It’s about solidarity.
“She’s got help” isn’t just a one-liner.
It’s a lifeline.
A reminder that you don’t have to fight alone.
And it’s not just something that happens on a battlefield in a movie. It happens in Indiana. On a Friday. In a kitchen with mismatched cups and college kids who’ve eaten their way through the groceries.
This week, John and I were out of town handling an urgent matter. Nothing glamorous — just the kind of week where you pack just enough clothes, pray you don’t run out of meds, and spend more time on phone calls than sleep. The kind where you’re juggling a dozen moving pieces and quietly worrying whether your kids are eating anything besides frozen pizza.
And Bea knew. Of course she did. She’s the kind of friend who sees the cracks before they split wide open. She didn’t text to ask, “Do you want me to check on the kids?” She just showed up. Panera in hand. Her whole family in tow. She knocked on the door and stepped right into that sacred gap between “I know they’re fine” and “I wish I could be there anyway.”
And here’s the part that got me: I didn’t even ask.
Our kids are grown — one in college, one recently graduated with jobs and occasional existential dread about the future. They’re capable. But they’re still our kids. And there’s something that hits deep when another trusted adult steps in, unasked, and loves them like they’re hers.
Bea brought takeout — nothing fancy, just enough to say You’re seen. You’re loved. You’re not alone. They sat around the kitchen table that’s held science projects, late-night snacks, and one particularly chaotic birthday party with magic relighting candles.
They told stories. Dorm gossip. Smoke alarm mishaps. College drama. Things they probably wouldn’t say to me directly, because kids know how to filter for their parents — but with Bea there, they unfolded.
When I got the text — “Hey, we’re with your kids. Don’t worry about a thing” — I put my phone down in the stiff hotel room chair and just let myself feel grateful.
Because that right there?
That’s it.
That’s the moment.
She’s got help.
No capes. No battle cries. No glowing gauntlets.
Just a friend with sandwiches.
A circle that holds steady when your arms are full.
Proof that found family doesn’t just exist in movies — it lives in Friday night meals, borrowed time, and people who show up without being asked.
I’ve tried to do the same — in my own imperfect, slightly sarcastic way. I’m not flashy. But I am faithful. And over the years, we’ve traded places like that. I’ve shown up for her kids. She’s shown up for mine. The balance doesn’t have to be perfect — it just has to be present.
I’ve spent a lot of years believing that being a “good” mom meant being the first line of defense. The fixer. The planner. The one who’s always there. Even now, with grown kids and more gray hairs, there’s a little voice that whispers: If you’re not there, who will be?
This week, Bea answered that question for me: I will be.
Sometimes the proof that we’re loved isn’t in the big gestures.
It’s in the crumbs on the table.
The secondhand laughter.
The stories passed around a table I didn’t even get to sit at — and the knowing that someone else pulled up a chair for me.
So tonight, post-popcorn, post-Panera, and post-cry session, this is what I’m holding close:
Who in my life is carrying something they haven’t said out loud yet?
Who’s on the edge of burnout, pretending they’re fine?
Who needs a casserole, a hug, or maybe just a “Hey. I’m still here”?
Because we don’t need powers to be powerful.
We just need to be present.
To notice. To listen. To stay.
To show up and say:
You don’t have to do this alone.
You’ve got help.
I love you 3000.
Rachel L. Richard is a small-town farm girl turned suburbanite, a delightfully irreverent optimist, Mrs & Mama, floppy dog ear scratcher, lifelong learner, channel surfer, wanderer, believer, occasional creative, out-of-practice musician, cupcake addict, book devourer, and lover of all people.
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