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Content warning: this article contains mentions of suicidal ideation, mental illness, and substance abuse. 

There was once a time in my life when running around in a Spider-Man costume was the ultimate joy for me. Seeing myself in the suit, my identity obscured by the mask, brought on a giddy sense of euphoria. As Spider-Man, I could move beyond myself and become something more - a symbol even. With the suit on, I could express the more optimistic side of my personality. I was him, and so were a lot of other people. It felt great to be happy. 

But the older I get, the more I feel estranged from Spider-Man. In 2024, even when the appearance of me in my Spidey suit elicited screams of amazement from elementary school children, and I physically acted out the behaviors and personality quirks of Peter Parker, I felt empty inside. The suit wasn't representing me anymore. The faceshell I had on under my mask was squeezing my head, as if to tell me that I could no longer fit into this mold. I wish I could tell you that I dramatically left the suit in an alley and walked away from it like Peter does in The Amazing Spider-Man #50, but that's not what happened. Instead, I realized that the relatability matrix at work in Marvel Comics wasn't working for me the way that it once did. 

So let's back up a minute, what's relatability got to do with the Marvel brand? Part of what has given the world of Marvel Comics so much mileage in pop culture is its folk-inspired approach. That is, in contrast to the more mythic feel of DC Comics (generally), Marvel stories are built around relatability, even though the superhero genre is marked by a sense of aspiration in pursuit of the ideal. And what makes a character relatable to us? Their flaws. We feel less alone when we see someone else, even if they're fictional, grappling with the same private problems as us. This is why Spider-Man is a global pop culture icon, because he was designed to be an everyman. 

To be clear, there are still Marvel characters whom I relate to, but that recognition exists within a cultural or public dimension. Wolverine and I are both 5'3" and a little cranky, Daredevil and I are both Irish Catholics from Manhattan with sensory disabilities, while Lin Lie gives me the chance to celebrate my Shanghainese heritage with a little irreverence. All of these are attributes you could glean from interacting with me, because they're things I don't feel discouraged to hide. They connect me to larger collectives in society. But, as Carl Jung could tell you, our public selves don't give us the full picture of who we actually are. There's that messy thing we have inside called our inner lives, and that's where Thunderbolts* comes in. 

The Sentry is a hopeful figure for anyone who has dealt with mental illness and substance abuse. 

If I remember correctly, one of the first things I texted one of my friends as the credits rolled for Thunderbolts* was "I'm just Bob." And while I was being a little silly, I meant it. I don't really know how to say this, because I've never had to, but I deal with a lot of the same issues that Sentry has to confront in the film. And admittedly, I don't go hopping onto this here world wide web looking for characters who experience suicidal ideation and depression and are also recovering alcoholics. Those are all things about me that I'd rather not dwell on. But Thunderbolts* gives us the opportunity to look directly at these problems for what they are, for what they do to us, so we can realize that we're not alone in our struggles. The darkest corners of who we are still deserve to be part of a cultural conversation, to be represented in pop culture figures like The Sentry. 

I think the most astonishing balance that Thunderbolts* managed to strike with Bob is that he's vulnerable without being made to look infantile. Sure, he doesn't really have the capacity to brush his hair properly, but he can still come up with a plan for him, Ghost, Yelena, and USAgent to crawl up an empty elevator shaft. He apologizes profusely after shooting a SWAT guy in the leg, but he also bravely sacrifices himself so that people he barely knows can get away from Valentina Allegra de Fontaine's soldiers. He's lovable, and Thunderbolts*, like any good Marvel story, gives us plenty of reasons to root for him, regardless of whether or not we've gone through something similar. In the film's post-credits scene, he even mentions that he's done the dishes!

The MCU's future looks brighter with the Sentry in it. 

Seeing Lewis Pullman's Bob articulate the nuances of living with mental illness made me feel welcomed back within the world of Marvel Comics. I no longer have to pretend that Peter Parker is an honest expression of who I am. With the Sentry, I feel empowered to recognize both the highs and lows of who I am, the hurt I've felt alongside the immense recovery and growth I've experienced. And, of course, the love I've gotten from my support network. In this sense, The Sentry makes me feel proud of my humanity, instead of ashamed of it.

While I was feeling pretty lukewarm about Avengers: Doomsday, I'm feeling like an excited fanboy all over again because the Sentry is going to be in it. I think I'm starting to understand all of the men in my theater who cheered at various points of Spider-Man: No Way Home. Feeling seen by a character brings meaning to the lives we've lived. And that alone - the act of living and continuing to live - is worth cheering for. 

Needless to say, I'll be leaving the Spider-Man costume at home for Avengers: Doomsday, and will be rocking some Bob-inspired scrubs on opening night instead. 

Consider this a meta post-credits scene for Marvel fans - the four key articles you need to read next to continue the thrills:

• How to watch the Marvel Cinematic Universe in release or chronological order
• The best Marvel Comics stories of all time
• All the MCU movies ranked from best to worst
• Our weekly Marvel insider's column, Marvel Matters