I am not a superhero.

I am not a superhero.

Let that sink in for a moment.

I bet you haven't been this shocked since Tom Cruise jumped on Oprah's couch.

If you don't understand the couch-jumping reference, you are probably too young to read this blog. Please, go play outside before you become a technology-addicted zombie. There are already too many of us.

As earth shattering as this revelation may be to the technology-addicted zombies still reading, my non-superhero status is something that I've had to come to terms with lately. Let me tell you, It hasn't been easy. In fact, someone will probably still have to pry my bedazzled Pinterest-inspired cape out of my hands. (If you've made it this far, that job has become yours and you should know that I'm hard to take down with less than a professional wrestling team.)

But back when I was young and stupid (translation: before I had this famous blog), I played the part of the superhero. Whenever my parents fought, I put myself in the middle to stop the chaos. When my older brother started leaving the house to hang out with a bad crowd, I thought of every excuse to convince him to stay home. When I got older and found my own group of friends, I was the one who tried to solve their problems. Like any good actor playing a part, I eventually got very good at being the superhero. Just like in the movies, I was able to convince others of my superhero status. Even more, I was able to convince myself. In a world where the only thing certain is uncertainty, I found comfort in believing that I could control some part of it; that I could be the one to right things when the crazy train derailed.

Unfortunately, like every great superhero, I found my kryptonite - the one thing that put a wrench in my plans. A pesky reality that messed up everything I believed about myself and my power in the world. This was my kryptonite: We are all human. What a downer, right? I mean, why couldn't my kryptonite be Paula Deen's butter pound cake or trashy Jersey Shore reruns? As hard as it would be to tear myself away from Miss Paula's buttery deliciousness or The Situation's mutant muscles, I could do it. I would have had some control over those things. But this? The very essence of our humanity, the fact every one of us has free will, the ability to make mistakes and decisions that, in an instant, can completely change the course of our lives? This was completely out of my control. I couldn't stop people from fighting, or from surrounding themselves with the wrong people, or from making decisions that I didn't agree with. And it was a total bummer.

In this fantasy world I had built for myself, the one where I was the superhero with the bedazzled cape, I believed that I was helping people. After all, what's more noble than helping people to escape disaster, or to avoid disaster altogether? What's more admirable than sacrificing yourself for the greater good? In my  superhero days, I would have said, "Absolutely nothing." But I was wrong. The best thing you can do for people is to let them live their lives. Know when to step in and when to step back. Let them make mistakes, give them the freedom to be their own decision makers, have faith in their ability to put the pieces of their lives back together in their own time.

In realizing that I don't have all of the solutions for life's problems, that the only control I have is over my own actions, I relinquished any claim to supernatural powers. (This made redoing my business cards a b**ch.)  But, in coming to terms with my humanity, I claimed something much greater, a power that had been within me all along. I found the power to love people enough to let them follow their own destiny. The power to accept that we all make mistakes. The power to stand beside people when things fall apart and to cheer them on when things begin to come together. The power to forgive, to ask for forgiveness, to rejoice in what makes us human. The power to love. 

So, the truth is out. I am not a superhero.

I cannot save people.

I can only love them.

And that is enough.