Brand New Day: What Spider-Man Teaches Us About Healing and Growth
I’ll admit it: despite being a Marvel fan, Spider-Man has never been one of my favorite superheroes.
It’s not because he’s unlikeable. Quite the opposite. He’s often portrayed as the quintessential “good guy”—earnest, compassionate, and always willing to sacrifice himself for others. He’s the golden retriever of superheroes.
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Maybe that’s exactly why I underestimated him.
I assumed his stories were mostly about teenage awkwardness, balancing school with superhero duties, and the everyday coming-of-age struggles that define so many “slice of life” narratives. I hadn’t realized just how much emotional weight Peter Parker has been carrying all along.
Then I found myself with a free movie ticket.
I rarely see films on opening weekend, but somehow there I was—surrounded by excited fans—and unexpectedly found myself fighting back tears. Long after the credits rolled, I couldn’t stop thinking about what I’d seen.
This isn’t a movie review.
It’s a reflection on the psychology behind the story.
I’ll keep spoilers to a minimum.
The Grief Peter Parker Never Really Faced
Longtime Spider-Man fans are probably rolling their eyes already.
“Spider-Man has always had depth.”
Fair enough.
I haven’t read every comic or seen every adaptation, so I’m certainly not claiming expertise. But what struck me in this film was how quietly it portrayed grief—not as something dramatic, but as something woven into everyday life.
Peter has already lost some of the most important people he’s ever loved.
Instead of fully processing those losses, he creates rituals around them. He checks in through social media. He visits graves. He maintains just enough connection to keep the memories alive without allowing himself to truly feel the weight of them.
From a psychological perspective, it feels familiar.
Sometimes grief doesn’t disappear.
It becomes compartmentalized.
We organize our lives around it.
We create routines that help our nervous system survive, convincing ourselves we’ve “moved on” when we’ve really just learned how to function around the pain.
Until our bodies decide otherwise.
Peter begins experiencing headaches. His body no longer feels predictable. His suit doesn’t fit the way it once did. The very things that once came naturally begin to fail him.
He isn’t simply changing.
He’s growing beyond the version of himself that his grief allowed him to remain.
Like many of us, his first instinct isn’t curiosity.
It’s control.
When Growth Feels Like the Enemy
One line from the film stayed with me.
Another character gently suggests that maybe the very thing Peter is trying so hard to stop is actually doing exactly what it’s supposed to do.
How often is that true in our own lives?
Instead of asking what our anxiety, sadness, or loneliness might be trying to tell us, we declare war on them.
We distract ourselves.
We overwork.
We isolate.
We convince ourselves that if we stay productive enough, successful enough, or busy enough, we’ll never have to feel what’s underneath.
Peter throws himself into being Spider-Man while keeping everyone else at arm’s length.
For a while, it works.
Until it doesn’t.
Because avoidance has limits.
Eventually, the cost becomes too high—not only for ourselves but for the people who care about us.
Real healing doesn’t begin until Peter allows himself to be honest about what he’s carrying.
Connection Is What Helps Us Grow
Watching the film reminded me of something I say often in therapy:
We are wired for connection.
We need connection with our minds, bodies, and spirits to make wise decisions.
We need connection with ourselves—including the parts we feel embarrassed by, ashamed of, or afraid of—to fully realize our potential.
We need connection with purpose to keep moving forward.
And perhaps most importantly, we need connection with one another.
Healing rarely happens in isolation.
The Parts of Ourselves We Try to Silence
One of the most challenging parts of my work as a therapist is helping people recognize that the very parts of themselves they’re trying to eliminate are often trying to protect them.
Anxiety.
Hypervigilance.
Perfectionism.
People-pleasing.
Avoidance.
These behaviors didn’t appear out of nowhere.
At some point, they were adaptive. They helped us survive.
The problem isn’t that these parts exist.
The problem is that they continue using yesterday’s survival strategies in today’s reality.
When we spend months—or years—avoiding painful emotions, life has a way of turning up the volume.
Our bodies speak.
Our relationships struggle.
Our emotions become louder because they’re asking to be acknowledged.
The Loneliness That Hit Me the Hardest
Ironically, the part of the movie that affected me most wasn’t the action.
It was the loneliness.
As a therapist and social worker, I spend my days surrounded by people. I’m constantly in conversation, helping others navigate some of the hardest moments of their lives.
Yet, I also know how difficult genuine closeness can be. I’ve had seasons where I’ve done the very thing that Peter Parker does in the movie, checking the social media of those that I miss, thinking that I am soothing my anxious nervous system, while actually only limiting its ability to process what happened.I’ve also had moments where I spent so much time reminiscing on the past, that I didn’t recognize opportunities in the present for me to heal myself.
Throughout that journey, I’ve found (and Parker eventually finds) a few things that are helpful:
Seeking counsel. For me, having my own therapist made it hard to avoid the things that I would scoot to the bottom of my priority list throughout the day. I have a therapist who gently calls out the thing that stings so that I can be vulnerable in a safe space and actually process. Peter also seeks advisement from folks who are knowledgeable about such struggles.
Being a bit brave (or risky). Connection is risky. If we allow people to matter, we also accept that one day they might hurt us. Or leave. Or die. In the movie, Peter had to trust his loved ones with the truth, just as his ancestors had to trust that he would someday understand the truth they had given him before their deaths. Having the difficult conversation didn’t automatically fix everything, but it opened the door for all parties to heal and potentially find a new way forward. It also allows us to heal and create new ideas about the benefits of connection, which can potentially outweigh those risks.
Engaging in spiritual practices. My faith helps me sit with the unexplainable. Journaling and praying often give me a sense of peace and my mind a break from trying to figure it all out. Acceptance can be challenging, but I have found that acknowledging, accepting, doing all I can, and trusting God with all I cannot has created more space for my mind, body, and spirit to move so I don’t feel stuck. There is always more to life than our biggest problem, and sometimes seeing that can help us break it down into smaller steps toward solutions.
Moral of the story: the walls we build to protect ourselves often become the very prisons that keep us from growing.
Perhaps that’s what Brand New Day is really about.
Not becoming someone entirely different.
But becoming someone willing to stop fighting the parts of themselves that we think are the problem. Doing the things that actually soothe our nervous system so that our body can do what it knows how to do…heal.
Maybe growth doesn’t happen when we defeat the villain.
Maybe it begins when we finally stop running from the pain we’ve been carrying all along.
What about you?
Have you ever realized that something you were desperately trying to suppress was actually pointing you toward healing?
I’d love to hear your thoughts in the comments. If this reflection resonated with you, consider subscribing for more essays exploring the intersection of psychology, storytelling, and the ways popular culture can help us better understand ourselves.