In a world where you turn on the news and see nothing but negativity and division, I think there’s one thing we can all agree on… romcoms are fluffy, predictable, and packed with unrealistic expectations. And you know what… I LOVE THEM. Growing up, romcoms were my bread and butter. When the world felt harsh or unpredictable, I could curl up with a good romantic comedy and know that, even if it were just for a little while in a made-up world, good would win, the girl would get the guy, and everything would end with a happily ever after.
As I grew older, I learned there was more to these movies than I first realized. They weren’t about finding “perfect love,” but learning who you are while f​umbling toward it.
13 Going on 30 was a movie I’d curl up with on a Friday night. I loved Jennifer Garner and Mark Ruffalo in this film. Thirteen-year-old Jenna wants to be th​irty so she can be treated like an adult, have the “handsome” boyfriend, and finally stop being an outcast. She makes a wish and wakes up as a 30-year-old woman with a successful career at her favorite magazine, her own apartment, a hot boyfriend, and the status she always dreamed of. The only problem… so many of the people and things she loves are gone. This movie taught me that rushing to grow up, or to move on to the next thing, means missing the small joys. Life, and love, are about appreciating where you’re at and noticing the little things you take for granted. Plus, it turns out being thirty, flirty, and thriving is more about back pain and budgeting than magic dust and Mark Ruffalo.
Runaway Bride is a family favorite in my house. Julia Roberts and Richard Gere have beautiful chemistry, and I’m sorry to all you Pretty Woman fans, but Runaway Bride is the stronger movie in terms of character development and storyline. Maggie has a reputation for running away at the altar. When journalist Ike hears about her in a bar, he writes about her, and when it backfires, he travels to her hometown to double down on his accusations. Along the way, the two form a unique attachment that, in my opinion, sets a great example for a healthy relationship. Ike encourages her to truly learn her own likes and dislikes before she walks down the aisle. That’s what this movie taught me… learn who you are and how to love yourself. People-pleasing and uncertainty can get in the way of what we really want.
Sweet Home Alabama is one that I quote all the time. I love this movie with Reese Witherspoon and Josh Lucas, who play childhood sweethearts who grow apart after tragedy and end up living separate lives. Melanie returns home to finalize her divorce from Jake so she can marry her New York boyfriend. As mayhem ensues, the two rediscover why they fell in love and realize that even though they’ve grown apart, they haven’t grown out of who they are, which at the end of the day… is two people who still love each other. This movie taught me that you can’t outgrow your roots. Returning home, physically or emotionally, can be cathartic and humbling.
How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days is a classic. Kate Hudson and Matthew McConaughey play a comedic duo both trying to use the other, unbeknownst to the other, to either win a bet or write an article. Chaos unfolds as they put each other through the ringer for their own goals. Through all the laughs and touching moments, this movie teaches that love hides in the small, unplanned moments. It’s when Andy and Ben stop performing and allow themselves to be real with each other, beyond the bets and the articles, that they discover the little things that bring them closer. It’s easy to believe love is about dramatic declarations, but it’s really built in the in-between. The small talks that turn real. The shared laughs that weren’t planned. The comfort of being known without performing for it.
You’ve Got Mail is peak romcom. Meg Ryan and Tom Hanks have undeniable chemistry, and this movie is pure comfort when I need something cozy. Kathleen and Joe are anonymous online pen pals and real-life rivals. Over email, they are fast friends who can’t wait to share the details of their day. Offline, they’re both dating other people and running competing book businesses. This movie taught me that love takes a risk, and sometimes dial-up. It is terrifyingly vulnerable, but it can be worth it. And sometimes it doesn’t come from where you expect it.
The Proposal is romantic comedy at its funniest. Sandra Bullock and Ryan Reynolds have a witty chemistry that makes almost every moment hilarious (and that doesn’t even include Betty White’s scenes). Margaret is Andrew’s boss at a book publishing firm… and a super cranky one at that. When she’s threatened with deportation back to Canada, she lies and says the two are engaged. Once the lie is out there, they head to Alaska to convince everyone it’s true. This movie taught me that people are rarely what they first seem and that everyone has a reason for their armor. It’s a cute display of learning to look beyond what people show us, to the person behind the mask.
27 Dresses is an adorable romcom about Tess, a woman who is in love with love. She has been a bridesmaid in 27 weddings and is hopelessly infatuated with her boss… which becomes tricky when he starts dating, then becomes engaged to her little sister. This movie taught me that you can love someone and still set healthy boundaries. It can be a romantic partner, a friend, or even a family member. Boundaries don't degrade your love.
The Notebook became an instant classic. Noah and Allie are polar opposites. Their romance starts as a summer fling and lasts for decades. Their love story is filled with both ordinary and grand gestures that reflect their commitment. Whether it’s climbing a Ferris wheel, writing a love letter a day for over a year, restoring a dream house, or reading their story to help the other remember, they understand something I learned from this movie… love takes persistence, not perfection. It’s about finding beauty in ordinary devotion and choosing each other daily.
So yes… romcoms may exaggerate or oversimplify, but their core truths are timeless. This genre has played such a large role in shaping not only my expectations, but also my sense of humor and my empathy. It helped me realize that love isn’t about some exaggerated, over-the-top version of perfect romance, but about imperfect people who try anyway… day after day.
Maybe I’ll never have a grand airport chase or Josh Lucas telling me he wants to marry me so he can “kiss you anytime I want,” with a southern drawl, but if I can laugh, forgive, and keep believing in small, ordinary love stories, maybe that’s the real happy ending.

​The first bell always feels a little too loud in the morning. Students drift through the doors, voices rising and falling as the day wakes up around them. In the middle of the chatter, there are small moments that say more than words ever could. A student holds the door for someone without being asked. Another cuts between two people who are talking and keeps walking. It’s in those seconds that the quiet lessons live, the ones that tell us what kind of community we are building.
Throughout my years, I have developed my own threshold when it comes to disrespectful behavior that I do not tolerate. Whether it is referring to a teacher by their first name, belching without saying excuse me, walking between people who are talking, wearing a hat inside a building, or talking when someone else already is, I have certain expectations that most students understand and respect. However, we live in a changing world where gone are the days of old when common courtesy was common.
Many years ago, I was taught by a very dear friend and mentor that the job of educators isn’t just to teach students reading, writing, and math, but also to teach them to be fully functional, contributing members of society that people don’t want to hurt. This latter lesson starts when we, the educators, mirror the respect we want our students to have. From the outside, it may look like we are teaching one curriculum, when in fact we are teaching two: the official one with objectives and rubrics, and the unspoken one that teaches how to treat others.
When I first began my journey in education, I had some of the best examples when it came to creating a culture of respect. They took up this hidden curriculum gladly and were always willing to help guide not just students but peers through the dos and don’ts of creating a respectful, responsible, and safe environment. It wasn’t by saying, “No, you shouldn’t do that.” It was by living as an example, even when they felt overwhelmed or burnt out. I got to witness for years the effect of simply mirroring the behavior they wanted to see in their students. Without having to fight over and over again on the same battlegrounds of respect, their students got to see the normalization of being kind and thoughtful and the effect it had on those around them.
Like anything, there is another side to that coin. I have watched the effect of normalizing disrespect, the downward spiral of tearing down those around you because it is “fun” or it makes you feel “superior” or simply because you didn’t want to stop and think about someone else’s feelings. I’ve seen how this mindset erodes workplaces and communities alike, leaving behind distrust and exhaustion where collaboration once lived.
I understand the impulse because there was a period of time when being less than respectful was my knee-jerk reaction to some of my coworkers, family, and friends. It wasn’t until I consciously watched students mirror not just my behavior but the behavior of the adults around them that I had to take a step back. While it may not always be the popular thing, raising my expectations for not just students and coworkers, but for myself, doesn’t make it a bad thing. So this year, before I point fingers, I’m trying to get back to the Miss K of five years ago. The Miss K who tried to mirror the behavior that once was the standard, at least in my happy little corner of the world. Because respect still matters. Because students are always watching. And because even in the smallest places, dignity can begin again. 

As I’ve watched the world unfold over the last month, an observation I’ve made in the past has become glaringly at the forefront of my mind. I see it in our world, our country, my community, my place of employment, and even in my home. Two people on opposite ends of a topic, tension high, ending in arguments and hurt feelings. It feels heavier now, like every difference carries the weight of identity. In some instances, the damage isn’t beyond repair… in others, relationships are severed. But if we look back 10, 20, 50 years ago, this phenomenon wasn’t as widespread. Why is that? My theory? We’ve lost the art of gentle disagreement.
For each person and each scenario, there is probably a different catalyst, but I think most of them can be traced back to pride. We’ve lost the need to understand the people and world around us and have instead replaced that need with the desire to be affirmed in our own mindset. We’ve lost the ability to patiently walk through an idea or opinion with someone to try and see something from their point of view. Personally, I think we can blame some of that on the internet and the instant access to our own personal echo chambers, where we don’t need to understand a different viewpoint because we can simply block it.
However, patience and understanding are skills we spend a lifetime learning. They are rooted in recognizing the emotions of those around us and in learning how to grow from the friction we encounter with other people. This skill that we spend a lifetime hopefully practicing and perfecting is connected to humility, curiosity, and growth. Gentle skills that we may not actively think about but that we should fiercely nurture.
My theory is that if we learned how to offer gentle disagreement, something mind-blowing would happen. Instead of breaking relationships and burning bridges, we might actually deepen mutual respect. We might build stronger relationships by learning to not only “agree to disagree,” but through open, honest conversations, we could rediscover the quiet joy that comes from understanding someone else’s reasoning, even when it diverges from our own.
Maybe learning to disagree kindly isn’t just about believing people can change… it’s about remembering that connection matters more than being right.

This has been another heavy week. The state of our world and our country has weighed on me in ways that feel almost unbearable. I continue to grieve the loss of humanity through Charlie Kirk’s assassination, the constant reports of shootings, the division that only seems to deepen. On top of that came the ache of sending my niece to college and the familiar grind of living with chronic pain, all while still showing up for responsibilities. It has been a week that almost made hope feel like a fragile, feeble, unattainable concept… Almost.
Sunday, my family and I watched Charlie Kirk’s memorial, and my soul needed that. Under the crushing ache of grief for our country and for humanity, there were moments that not only restored my faith in people but also reignited my own faith. The service began with Charlie’s pastor proclaiming that the answer to all of life’s struggles could be found in Jesus Christ. His short sermon ended with an invitation for anyone who wanted to accept Christ into their hearts to stand. In the silence that followed, the stadium seemed to breathe as hundreds rose to their feet. It was breathtaking.
Later, Erika took the stage and reminded “older” Christians of our duty to help new Christians grow, to nurture faith rather than let it wither. And then she gave a living example of what that looked like. With tears in her voice, she spoke of Charlie’s heart for the lost, especially young men searching for direction, and then she said something I will never forget:

Her strength undid me. Her ability to forgive, to answer hate without hate, felt like an act of rebellion against despair. A choice to hold on to hope when bitterness would have been so much easier.
The week held another goodbye I was not ready for: taking my niece to college. I cannot begin to put into words how much I love this kid. Summers glued to my side, late-night talks, and in the past four years, sharing a home as she grew from a struggling teen into a compassionate, responsible, joy-filled young woman. Somewhere along the way, she became my best friend. So watching her walk into this new chapter undid me all over again. We barely made it out of sight before texting each other how much we already missed one another. Yet even through tears, I know she is prepared. I have hope that the same character I have seen in her will only deepen as she steps into adulthood.
And then, as autumn arrives, my body has started its annual rebellion. Chronic pain flares in my knees, hips, and back, leaving me drained by the time I get home from school. Most evenings are spent either trying to dull the ache or scrambling to prepare for another day. But even so, each morning I choose to meet my students with a smile. Teaching through pain is not easy, but it is one small act of resistance: to believe that my students deserve joy and consistency even when my body would rather collapse. Some days, that is all hope looks like… showing up when you do not feel like you can.
Hope is not naïve. It is radical. It refuses to let hatred, grief, or pain have the final word. It breathes in stadiums filled with new believers, it lingers in the goodbye hug between aunt and niece, and it steadies trembling knees in the classroom. Hope is my rebellion, and I choose it.

It has been a week since Charlie Kirk was assassinated, and honestly? I feel no better today than I did the day after. If anything, I feel worse.
My emotions keep circling: calm reassurance that Charlie was a brother in Christ, and that God will use even this loss to draw people to Him. Sadness, because after years of listening to his voice, I feel like I’ve lost someone I knew, someone I would have liked to call a friend. Fear, because there are people who celebrate his death, mocking him for his beliefs, beliefs I largely share. And then anger. Anger that our country and our world have slid to a point where this is not only tolerated, but celebrated. Anger that consequences and common sense have evaporated. Anger that we have turned so far from God, from the principles this nation was built on, that hatred and death are embraced as if they were virtues.
With all of that roiling inside, I still had to plaster on a smile. I have had to return to teaching after Charlie’s assassination, after Iryna Zarutska’s murder, after the Evergreen school shooting, on the anniversary of 9/11, and in the middle of conflict in my own school. And tomorrow, as I ache preparing to send my niece, my best friend, off to college, I will have to smile again.
When students ask how I am doing, I force myself to say, “Today is going to be a great day because I am going to make it one.” When they tell me they openly wept after watching the video of Charlie being shot, I have to keep my response “school appropriate” and “not political or religious.” What I want to say is: it is okay to cry. I have cried, too. A man was assassinated. They should have never been exposed to that. The world is dark, and I cannot promise it will get better soon.
But I can also say, at least here, that I have peace and hope in Christ. Even in the middle of hatred, violence, and uncertainty, I know He has a plan. I cannot hand that same peace to my students because it is not considered professional. So instead, I try to be a light. A sliver of hope. And I pray that somehow, through me, they glimpse the love of God.

Today began like any other. I went to work, came home for lunch, and scrolled on social media during my break. That’s when I saw the headline: Charlie Kirk had been shot while speaking at a university in Utah. I was stunned. I shared the news with my family and then forced myself back to the rhythm of the day. By the time I packed up from work, my phone buzzed with the confirmation I didn’t want. Charlie Kirk had died from his wounds.
Charlie married Erika Frantzve in 2021. Together, they welcomed a daughter in 2022 and a son in 2024. Wherever you stand politically or theologically, whether you agreed with him or not, at the end of every day, he was a husband and a father. If you doubt that, scroll through Instagram or TikTok and search “Charlie Kirk as a father.” Beyond the debates and the headlines, his children are innocent. And they were just robbed of their dad. They will grow up with photos, videos, and secondhand stories instead of having their father read them bedtime stories and tuck them in at night. They will hear their mother speak of his faith, his convictions, his laughter… but they will never feel the weight of his arms around them as they drift to sleep. A man’s political voice may echo in history, but for a child, it is the absence of his presence that leaves the deepest wound.
In our hyper-connected world, it is too easy to forget that public figures are more than their sound bites. We see a fraction of a life and imagine we know the whole person. We reduce them to icons, hashtags, or punchlines, stripping away their humanity. Yes, Charlie Kirk often said things that sparked controversy, things that made their way into duets and reaction videos. But that does not erase the truth that he was a living, breathing human being who loved and was loved.
As I write this, fact-checking and sourcing, I want to be clear. Too many articles describe his death with headlines like “Charlie Kirk shot,” or “Charlie Kirk dead after campus shooting.” That phrasing flattens the reality. He was not simply shot. He was assassinated. Murdered. This was not an accident. A gun did not go off by mistake. A person loaded, aimed, pulled the trigger, and took his life by choice because of disagreement with his words. When we soften that truth, we underplay the horror of political violence. And when voices online frame such violence as justified, we invite it to happen again.
On TikTok, Instagram, and Facebook, reactions flood in. Many, friends and strangers alike, are offering condolences. Yet far too many respond with cruelty: laughter emojis, comments that he “deserved it,” even praise for the shooter. A friend posted about Charlie’s death, and someone replied with mocking words and celebratory scorn. This should chill us. We have reached a point where cheering for murder feels acceptable to some. It does not matter whether you are Democrat or Republican, Christian or Atheist, Muslim or Jew. We are all human beings. We all bleed. As a Christian, I believe every life is sacred, and watching others treat life as disposable breaks my heart.
At approximately the same time, Evergreen High School in Colorado faced its own shooting. No lives were lost, but students were wounded, classmates traumatized, and families shaken to their core. Hallways that should have been filled with ordinary noise and laughter were instead marked by fear. And again, the debates swell over gun control, blame, and politics. But before all that, before the shouting, we must say what this is: attempted murder. Violence carried out by individuals, not inanimate objects. Violence born from hearts steeped in anger and hate.
Our culture is breaking. And yet, it is not beyond repair. But if we continue celebrating violence, excusing cruelty, and mocking the dead, we risk losing more than lives. We risk losing our humanity. I pray I never live to see that day. But prayer must be met with action. If we want to slow this descent, if we hope to nurture compassion and empathy again, then we must be willing to embody those things. I must be willing to embody them.
Because at the end of the day, whether we agree or not, every one of us is flesh and blood. Every one of us is loved by God.
Tonight, I pray for Charlie Kirk’s family. I pray for the Evergreen community. I pray for those mourning not only loss of life but the loss of dignity and humanity in how that life is treated. And, hardest of all, I pray for the ones who pulled the trigger and for those who cheer them on.
We need a return to humanity. Without it, we will not only lose lives. We will lose ourselves.

September is “World Pain Month.” I had to laugh when I first saw that, because if there is one thing I have learned, it is that pain doesn't really need its own month. For those of us who live with it every day, it is always there.
What is harder to laugh about is the way pain sometimes turns into a contest. Who has it worse? Who suffers the most? Who gets the most sympathy? Here is the truth... pain is not a competition. No one wins by hurting more. And you don't get a prize just for participating.
I live with Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome, or EDS, a connective tissue disorder. Mine comes from a genetic mutation. That word is important. A mutation means this did not just pass down through the family tree... it was a fluke. It is written into me, part of my DNA, and confirmed through genetic testing. This has been my reality since birth, and it shapes every single day of my life.
I understand why people might reach for a label like mine. They want answers, or they want to feel connected. The irony is that claiming EDS to belong makes it harder for those of us who actually live with it to be believed. It is already an "invisible" condition, the kind that gets questioned and dismissed. What we do not need are sympathy seekers muddying the waters. That kind of claiming does not bring comfort. It diminishes the years of pain, the experiences we have endured, and the things we have lost out on because of a very real disability.
Living with EDS means pain is always present, but I have learned that not everyone needs to hear about it. That is why I cannot stand the phrase, “I do not want to be a burden.” To me, it sounds like something people say to invite reassurance or sympathy, as if they are waiting to be told how brave they are. When you actually live with that reality, when you spend your life quietly making sure you are not a burden, the phrase rings hollow. It feels like a performance, not the truth.
At the end of the day, I know pain is universal. Everyone carries it in one form or another. While I would never want to belittle that, it also is not the world’s problem to solve. Some of us have no choice but to keep moving, to find ways to work around it, to shoulder it without asking for applause. That is the reality of living with pain. And it is not a contest anyone should want to win.​

As I prepare for the back-to-school rush, reorganizing and weeding my libraries, I found my subject for the week: graphic novels. Love them or hate them, they are taking over the reading field and have changed the way children consume literature. From Diary of a Wimpy Kid to Dog Man, from A Wrinkle in Time to I Survived, children can’t seem to get enough of the graphic novel phenomenon. The real question is… can graphic novels do more than just engage students? Can they build real reading proficiency and support standardized testing performance?
One of the most important contributions graphic novels make addresses the first hurdle many librarians and parents face: motivation and engagement. In a 2023 survey by the National Literacy Trust, children who read graphic novels were twice as likely to say they enjoyed reading. These readers also reported feeling more confident than peers who didn’t read them. This matters because, in a world full of reluctant readers, getting a child to not only want to read but also feel confident while doing so builds fluency… which can lead to stronger reading proficiency down the road.
Graphic novels can also support vocabulary growth and comprehension. While this can’t be said of every graphic novel, many introduce complex words that are anchored by visuals to aid understanding. Because of this combination of rich vocabulary and supportive imagery, studies have shown that students who read graphic novels performed better on reading comprehension tests than peers who only read traditional texts.
The visuals themselves also play a key role. They require readers to interpret narrative across both text and images, building skills in prediction, sequencing, inference, and critical thinking. All of these skills contribute to stronger performance on state assessments.
Throughout my years in public education, I’ve had many parents voice concerns about their children reading graphic novels, especially during Book Fair season, when they make up a large portion of the merchandise sent to us. These concerns are valid. Some worry the books aren’t complex enough and will discourage deeper reading habits, or that they might limit the more in-depth reading experiences parents hope for in school. For a long time, my own hesitation was that graphic novels could hinder a child’s ability to immerse themselves in long, text-only novels rich in world-building. I worried their attention spans might adapt to shorter formats, making it harder to engage with more complex works.
That’s why I believe how graphic novels are used is important. Rather than becoming the default, they should serve as bridges. Introducing students to stories that spark their interest while encouraging them to explore longer, more challenging works. Over the years, I’ve seen reluctant readers engage deeply with graphic novels, and with the right guidance, they’ve built the confidence to move into prose. In this way, graphic novels can be powerful tools to help readers grow in multiple directions.
Years ago, I read an article about the potential drawbacks of certain series, specifically Diary of a Wimpy Kid and Captain Underpants. The author argued that if we meet kids where they are but fail to encourage growth, we aren’t truly serving them. I carry that perspective into every conversation I have about graphic novels with students, staff, and parents. When used thoughtfully, they can be much more than just “fun.” They can boost motivation, support vocabulary development, and strengthen the skills that lead to lasting reading proficiency.

Growing up, I was raised to love and serve others. That was how you made the world a better place. I never questioned that purpose, and I still believe in it wholeheartedly. But lately, I have found it harder to live it out with a smile on my face.
The problem with having a servant’s heart is that people notice, and some will take advantage. It feels like there has been a shift in the world. Gone are the days of please and thank you. We live in a time where help is often expected, as though it is owed, whether it has been earned or not.
Work has been one of the hardest places to feel this change. I used to be shown genuine appreciation by my boss and coworkers, and while I never helped for recognition, that acknowledgment felt like salve to the soul. Now, instead of a simple “thank you” when I go above and beyond, I am often met with new tasks that are not even in my job description. That shift has hardened a part of me that once eagerly stepped in to help.
I have noticed the same thing happening in my personal life. When family or friends come over, there are moments when I am expected to do things that are not my responsibility, without so much as a word of gratitude. It is not that I mind helping. It is when it becomes an expectation that it begins to hurt.
In response, I have tried to speak up more and set clearer boundaries. Sometimes those boundaries are respected. Other times, they are ignored, and I do not have the support I need to stand by them. That lack of support, combined with repeated disregard, is discouraging. It drains me mentally, emotionally, physically, and spiritually. Each instance might be manageable on its own, but together, they leave me feeling like a hollow version of myself.
I care deeply about the people and things I commit myself to. My exhaustion does not mean I have stopped caring. It means the energy to act on that care is slipping away. I do not think it is too much to ask that kindness be met with kindness, or that respect be mutual. Loving people should not have to mean losing myself.
I still believe in the power of kindness to make the world better. I just hope we can all remember that kindness thrives when it is shared, not hoarded. The more we give and receive it, the more we create a world where loving others never has to cost us our joy.

Superman Returns to Form (Almost)
A few weeks back, I wrote a post about what Superman stands for and how, as a society, we’ve lost sight of the character’s core values: truth, justice, and the American way. At the time, I didn’t realize a new Superman movie was on the horizon. But once I found out, I dove headfirst into interviews, sneak peeks, and fan theories. I was hopeful this film would bring back the Superman many of us grew up loving, but I was also cautious. Modern cinema doesn’t always honor the past well.
The end result? It got a lot right. But not without a few awkward fumbles.

What They Got Right: Back to the Basics
Superman has always stood on strong moral ground. For those of us raised on the classics or even just the comics, his tagline alone says it all: truth, justice, and the American way. But it was more than a slogan. He represented humility and restraint. A man with god-like power who chose to be gentle. He never needed to intimidate to gain respect. He earned it by being good.
That clarity has been lost in recent portrayals, especially in the more brooding, morally murky versions. Henry Cavill’s Superman, for all his strengths, often lacked that inner light. This new film, though, felt like a return to the real Superman, the one guided by a simple but unshakable code of ethics.
One scene, in particular, stood out. Early in the film, Lois interviews Superman about his interference in an international conflict. She questions whether he overstepped. His response is immediate and emotional: people were dying, and he had to act. They go in circles, but his conviction is unwavering. And that’s exactly who Superman is. Sometimes it really is that simple.
David Corenswet’s performance captured that simplicity with heart. He understood that Superman had to feel larger than life, a beacon of hope, yet remain distinctly separate from Clark Kent. I especially appreciated his physical and vocal shifts between the two personas. He wasn’t perfect, but it was the best attempt I’ve seen in years to meaningfully separate Clark from Superman, much like Christopher Reeve once did.
The return to Superman’s moral compass was the most refreshing part of the film. In a world oversaturated with tortured anti-heroes, Superman’s decency set him apart again. Rewatching Smallville recently reminded me just how central compassion is to the character, and this movie brought that back. Even other characters in the film acknowledge it. They may not aspire to it, but they recognize it for what it is... rare, and powerful.
Going in, I was also wary of whether the movie would make heavy-handed political statements. Social media was already flooded with commentary: “If you’re anti-immigration, you’re anti-Superman.” And while I understand the metaphor, Superman is an alien who finds a home on Earth, I didn’t want the film to become another political soapbox. Thankfully, it didn’t. There were subtle nods, sure, but nothing that pulled me out of the story. And I appreciated that. Entertainment should allow space to reflect, not force-feed conclusions.
In one article I read before watching, the author argued that Superman doesn’t sell anymore because we’ve lost the innocence that made him resonate. I’d argue that politicizing everything only deepens that divide. We’re no longer allowed to just see him as a symbol of hope. But in this film, that’s exactly what he was. Not just a strong man in a cape, but a good man. And that return felt quietly revolutionary.

What Fell Flat: Too Much Goof, Not Enough Grit
While there was a lot to love, some choices didn’t land.
First: Krypto. I was excited when I heard Krypto the Superdog would be included. It felt like a deep cut from classic lore, a nod to long-time fans. But in execution? Not great. His scenes leaned hard into comic relief, and most of it felt unnecessary. He was more chaotic than useful, except for one crucial moment. Other than that, he was mostly a distraction.
Then there were the Kents. As someone from the South, I’ve grown tired of seeing Southern characters portrayed as overly simple or foolish. Martha yelling into the phone, bent over like she’s never used one before, was just lazy. Pair that with their exaggerated accents, accents that mysteriously didn’t carry over to Clark, and the illusion of a close-knit, grounded family started to crack.
And that closeness is essential. Superman’s strength doesn’t come from his Kryptonian lineage. It comes from the people who raised him. The film did touch on that, especially in one standout scene where Jonathan gives Clark a heartfelt talk about becoming his own person. It was the most authentic, Jonathan Kent-like moment in the movie, and I wish there had been more of that. Less goof. More roots.

The Question of Lex
I’ll be honest. Smallville shaped how I see Lex Luthor. Michael Rosenbaum made him sympathetic, layered, and unforgettable. Since then, no version has quite lived up.
This Lex wasn’t an exception, but he wasn’t a total loss either. I liked the focus on intellect. His obsession with proving that brains could outmatch brawn felt on-brand. But he still lacked that spark. Was it the writing? The casting? Maybe both. I didn’t need him to be likable, but I did want him to be compelling. And this Lex just didn’t leave much of an impression.

Final Thoughts: What This Superman Gets Right
Flaws and all, I genuinely enjoyed this movie.
It reminded me why Superman matters. Why he still stands out. In an age of murky morality and morally gray heroes, he remains a figure of hope, of doing the right thing honestly and humbly. No, the movie wasn’t perfect. But it brought something back that’s been missing for a long time: a return to goodness.
And honestly? That’s enough to make me believe in Superman again.