Fandoms have played a huge role in my life, shaping the way I view storytelling, heroism, and the human experience. Of all the fandoms I love, Star Wars is at the very top of the list. George Lucas created those original movies with children in mind, but he crafted them in a way that adults could also enjoy and learn from. He used the hero’s journey, a storytelling structure that has appeared throughout human history, borrowing influences from Japanese cinema, classic science fiction, fantasy, and even Greek epics. The story of Luke Skywalker follows this age-old path: the student discovering himself, finding a mentor, losing that mentor, and ultimately facing the ultimate test.
But Star Wars also explores the idea that heroes fall. Anakin Skywalker was once a hero before he became Darth Vader. The prequels expanded on this idea, showing how his fall was driven by fear, loss, and manipulation. Even Obi-Wan Kenobi experiences a form of downfall—not to evil, but to despair. By the time we see him in A New Hope, he has shut himself off from the world. Not just to protect Luke, but because of the overwhelming grief of losing Anakin, his brother in arms. The pain he feels is reminiscent of other legendary betrayals, like King Arthur and Lancelot.
This theme of flawed heroes extends beyond Star Wars. Comic books, particularly Marvel comics, are filled with characters who struggle with their own shortcomings. Even Superman, the quintessential Boy Scout, has faced moral dilemmas, has fallen, and even died before being brought back. Marvel’s heroes, in particular, feel more like real people—individuals who happen to have extraordinary abilities but still deal with personal battles. Their masks and costumes serve a purpose beyond theatrics; they separate their personal lives from their responsibilities, much like real-world heroes do. Police officers, firefighters, and military personnel all wear uniforms that symbolize their duty, yet they also have personal lives they must protect and balance.
Another fandom I hold dear is Star Trek. My favorite iteration is Deep Space Nine, and nobody can beat Avery Brooks as Captain Sisko. He brought an incredible passion to the role, and the show tackled issues of social justice, discrimination, and the cost of maintaining a utopian society. Star Trek, in all its iterations, has always pushed boundaries, presenting a future where humanity has moved beyond its worst tendencies—but not without struggle. Even in a utopian world, there are forces that threaten to tear it down, whether from within or from the outside. It’s a reminder that achieving a just society isn’t the end of the fight—you have to work to maintain it.
Fantasy is another love of mine, and few stories embody the hero’s journey better than The Lord of the Rings. Tolkien, first and foremost a linguist, created his world as an experiment in how language evolves with culture. But in doing so, he also crafted an epic that reflects the darkness of the world. His experiences in the trenches of World War I shaped the way he portrayed war—not just as a battlefield struggle, but as a weight that crushes entire civilizations. Though he was adamant that his work was not allegorical, the themes of war, loss, and perseverance are woven into every part of his stories.
His friend, C.S. Lewis, took a different approach with The Chronicles of Narnia. Lewis embraced allegory, weaving Christian themes throughout his works. When asked why his children’s books contained dark and terrifying elements, he explained that children need to know that there are monsters in the world—but more importantly, that those monsters can be defeated. Stories like these don’t just entertain; they help us process the real fears we face in life and give us hope that good can prevail.
Of course, fandoms aren’t without their conflicts. Star Wars, in particular, has seen intense division among fans. Every time a new trilogy is released, there’s an uproar. Some fans want the experience to feel exactly like the original trilogy did when they were kids, but that sense of innocence can never truly be recaptured. The prequels, for example, were criticized for focusing too much on CGI and effects, losing some of the raw storytelling that made the originals so compelling. When Disney took over, the sequels were met with backlash for different reasons. The Force Awakens was called too derivative, even though it was meant as an homage. And then The Last Jedi caused an even bigger rift, with its portrayal of Luke Skywalker as a broken man who had lost faith in the Jedi.
To me, that was one of the most realistic and moving aspects of the new trilogy. Heroes fall—not always to darkness, but sometimes to despair. Luke’s disillusionment wasn’t a betrayal of his character; it was a reflection of what happens when people carry the weight of the world for too long. His journey back to hope was just as important as his original rise to heroism. I relate to this personally, as I have struggled with depression, anxiety, and ADHD. There have been times when I’ve withdrawn completely, overwhelmed by the burdens of responsibility and self-doubt. But even in those moments of isolation, there’s always been something that has pulled me back—whether it’s my family, my love of storytelling, or the realization that even a small step forward is still progress.
Going back to school as a 40-year-old was one of those moments for me. I didn’t just do it for a degree; I did it to show my kids how to succeed, even when it’s hard. It wasn’t without pain or deep anxiety-fueled depression, but I endured because I wanted them to see that perseverance matters. And just like the heroes in these stories, I’ve learned that coming back, even for a moment, can make all the difference—not just for myself, but for those watching and looking for their own hope.
Fandoms are passionate spaces, and sometimes that passion leads to division. But at their core, these stories exist to inspire us, to challenge us, and to give us a glimpse of something greater than ourselves. Whether it’s a farm boy from Tatooine, a Vulcan exploring the stars, or a hobbit carrying a burden too great for anyone to bear, these characters remind us of our own journeys. And as long as stories continue to be told, as long as light still shines, there will always be hope.
