I don’t remember exactly what went through my mind when I was five. I’m pretty sure it had something to do with becoming a superhero. At that age, every kid dreams of having superpowers. They want to fly, become invisible, or have laser eyes. They also wish for the ability to stay up past 9 p.m. and eat cereal for dinner.

Our first “superhero” was the parental figure in our lives. It was mom, dad, grandparents, or that adult who somehow knew everything. They knew where we left our shoes and why the sky was blue. We looked at them and thought, “Wow… I want those powers too.” That’s why it is crucial for this figure to act responsibly during childhood. After all, every hero needs a good origin story.

Later, we expanded our list of idols to include society’s official protectors: police officers, firefighters, astronauts. They had uniforms, badges, cool vehicles, and—most importantly—respect. To a kid, that’s basically the Avengers.

And then came the fictional heroes: mysterious, solitary, extraordinary. Batman brooding on rooftops. Superman lifting cars. Spider‑Man swinging between buildings. Meanwhile, we were just trying not to trip over our own shoelaces. But still, we believed. And that belief shaped us.