What "Thunderbolts" Teaches Us About Trauma, Depression, and the Healing Power of Connection and Common Humanity

Owning our story can be hard but not nearly as difficult as spending our lives running from it. Embracing our vulnerabilities is risky but not nearly as dangerous as giving up on love and belonging and joy—the experiences that make us the most vulnerable. Only when we are brave enough to explore the darkness will we discover the infinite power of our light. Dr. Brene’ Brown

First, I’m not recommending that you go see the latest Marvel movie installment.  But movies and stories can be incredibly healing. Surely, we can all agree on that. I went to see the film yesterday with John, one of our sons, and six tweens and teens. Not expecting much but readying myself for a lot action.

We talked about Thunderbolts—afterwards.  It surprised us. The biggest impact on us was not the bangs, explosions, and tumbling buildings. What choked us up was how the movie depicted healing from trauma. It motivated us to be better with each other when we felt in the pits.

Bob, who seems pretty much like a throw-away nobody at first, turns out to be at the center of the film.  Eventually we realize that Bob is a character who has been heavily experimented on.  He now has incredible strength and other powers, but Bob also has a traumatized, haunted, depressed spirit. Under duress, he projects his darkness, his shadow, his experience of “the void” on to the whole city.  His solution to getting rid of his pain – all the pain is to erase people. What's to be done about that?

The movie, for all its super-soldiers and secret missions, tells a very human story. A story about wounds you can’t see that end up hurting not only us but others, the ineffective ways we try to suppress our pain, and the surprising path toward healing.

In Thunderbolts, the (anti)heroes (losers in their own minds) come with complicated pasts. Many carry emotional scars from betrayal, war, loss, shame, abuse, or manipulation. These aren’t just backstories—they’re living burdens. And that’s often what trauma feels like in real life: it doesn’t end when the event is over.

Trauma, especially when it leads to PTSD (Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder), can be like a phobia—but instead of fearing heights or spiders, the person fears a memory. The brain, trying to protect you, treats certain sounds, smells, or situations like flashing red warning lights—even if there’s no danger now.

Think of it like this: the body remembers, even when the mind tries to forget. So a hallway might remind someone of a hospital where they received bad news. The smell of diesel might trigger a memory of war. Loud voices might bring someone back to a moment they were powerless.

In Thunderbolts, you can see this in the way the characters flinch at sudden noises, avoid certain topics, or shut down emotionally. It’s a striking reminder: trauma isn’t weakness—it’s survival working overtime.

When Bob struggles with what looks like depression. It’s not sadness. Not sulking. But…a dark void.

That’s a word people with depression often use. “It’s not that I’m crying all the time,” they say. “It’s that I feel nothing—no joy, no motivation, no hope.”

In the movie, this shows up in subtle ways. Bob is slow to engage, hesitant to speak, and sometimes looks like he’s there... but not really there. It’s heartbreaking. But it’s also honest. And later when Bob goes off in a big way mentally, other characters eventually offer what works... not an advice fix but their brave presence in the midst of the storm. A quiet, nonjudgmental “I’m here". Right beside you in the void. I get it. Then everything shifts.

That’s often how healing starts: not with advice, but with unflinching connection.

Then there’s anxiety. Anxiety is the brain’s alarm system stuck in the “on” position. Heart racing. Mind spinning. Worst-case scenarios playing on repeat.

In real life, anxiety shows up in sleepless nights, panicked thoughts, trouble concentrating. And sometimes, like in the movie, it looks like irritability, hypervigilance, or indecision. It’s exhausting—and invisible.

But again, Thunderbolts reminds us: being seen matters. When one anxious character is reassured by a teammate’s steady hand or a word of encouragement or when they stand beside each other to hold the world together, their nervous energy and fear totally transforms into strength.

That’s what co-regulation looks like. We can’t always calm ourselves—but the calm presence of someone else can help us breathe again.

If there’s a moral buried beneath all the Marvel mayhem, it’s this: no one heals alone.

The turning point in Thunderbolts isn’t a battle. It’s a bond. A moment when one hurt person risks vulnerability and another responds with care. Not pity. Not platitudes. Just courageous presence.

This is backed up by everything we know about healing in real life. Studies on trauma recovery, like those by Dr. Bessel van der Kolk and others, show that safety, connection, and storytelling are essential to recovery. Talking to someone you trust. Being reminded you’re not alone. Reconnecting with your body through breath, movement, art, or nature.

As psychologist Dr. Judith Herman put it: “Recovery can take place only within the context of relationships; it cannot occur in isolation.”

Last Sunday when I was speaking to our little, lively, intergenerational church group, we talked about how we, as humans, suffer. I asked them to name some of the things that cause us to suffer. Immediately young hands shot up:

Loneliness (mentioned several times), getting picked on for no reason, feeling like we don’t belong, feeling like we are different – smaller or fatter or skinnier or younger or older or dumber or poorer,  of a different color or race, feeling ignored or rejected, feeling like we are being treated unfairly, feeling like no one is standing up for us when we are hurt by another – or that no one comes to our aid, feeling like our families are not close, feeling like we have no friends, losing a friend either because they drifted apart or because they had moved or died (they pointed out that grief included the loss of pets).  It felt bad to not be able to do well on a test.  It felt bad not to be able to get chosen for a team you wanted to be on.

I finally had to stop them.  It was clear that they were talking about their own psychological hurts. Nobody needed to tell them about what causes suffering.

But here is the thing that struck me.  After each thing they mentioned, I asked others who had experienced that sort of pain or suffering or stress to raise their hands.  And…do you know, before I tell you, what the response was?

99.9 percent of the congregation raised their hands on every single type of suffering. I told them to look around.  A few started to smile.  What was the smile about?

Perhaps it was about the healing that comes from  sharing our vulnerability and then …getting a glimpse of our common humanity.

It wasn’t advice that helped. No advice was being given. It was the recognition—the quiet inner realization that I’m not alone. Others are here with me on the journey.

That moment of human connection, as simple as it sounds, is one of the most powerful tools we have for well-being and connection.

Psychologist and self-compassion researcher Kristin Neff describes common humanity as the understanding that “suffering and personal inadequacy is part of the shared human experience—something that we all go through, rather than being something that happens to ‘me’ alone.”

In other words, pain is not a sign that something has gone wrong. It’s a sign that you’re human.

Whether it’s failure, heartbreak, anxiety, or that sense of “I’m the only one,” common humanity says: you’re not alone in this. And something deep in our brains and bodies relaxes when we believe it.

If you’ve ever been vulnerable—really vulnerable—you know it can be terrifying. But you also know the power of it.

Dr. Brené Brown, renowned researcher, speaker, writer, and storyteller who has spent over two decades studying courage and vulnerability, says:

“Vulnerability is the birthplace of connection….”

This is why people say they feel lighter after a support group, a heart-to-heart with a friend, or even hearing someone else on a podcast talk about something they thought they alone carried.

Vulnerability opens the door. Common humanity walks in and says, “You’re not weird. You’re not broken. You’re one of us. Human.”

Psychologist Irvin Yalom, a pioneer in group therapy, named one of the key healing forces in any group “universality”—the discovery that others share your fears, your doubts, your dark nights of the soul. Just knowing you’re not alone can make a burden feel 10 pounds lighter.

Social psychology backs this up. Social comparison theory tells us that we constantly judge ourselves based on what we think others are going through. The problem? We usually only see the highlight reels, not the hard parts. So we think we’re failing when we’re actually just being… human.

When others open up—when they admit they're struggling too—it resets our inner measuring stick. We realize, “Wait, maybe I’m not as alone or as weird or as behind as I thought.”

When we feel emotionally connected to others through shared experiences, our brains release oxytocin, the “bonding hormone,” and shift from the stress-based fight-flight-freeze mode to the soothing system.

Brain regions like the insula and anterior cingulate cortex, which help us recognize emotional states in others, activate when we listen to or witness someone’s vulnerability. This isn't just metaphor—our nervous systems are built to resonate with each other.

The more we share, the more we calm each other. The more we connect, the more we heal.

We now realize that loneliness is a crisis even for everyone.  Even our young people are suffering. The U.S. Surgeon General recently declared loneliness a public health crisis, pointing to its links with heart disease, depression, anxiety, and even early mortality.

But often, the antidote isn’t found in having more people around. It’s found in having more realness between us.

Loneliness isn’t the absence of people. It’s the absence of being known.

And when we dare to be vulnerable, and when we respond to others with warmth instead of judgment, we turn silence into solidarity.

So why don’t we share more? Why don’t we lean into common humanity more often?

Because we’ve been taught to believe that strength means perfection perhaps. That showing need is weakness. That the messier parts of life are best hidden. Or maybe we were hurt at some point when we shared our true feelings and someone used it against us.

But as Brené Brown reminds us:

“You can’t get to courage without walking through vulnerability. Vulnerability is not winning or losing. It’s having the courage to show up when you can’t control the outcome.”

When we pretend we’re fine, we cut ourselves off from the very thing that would help us heal: connection.

And the spiritual traditions around the world have always known what science is now proving.

• In Christianity, the Apostle Paul urges us to “carry each other’s burdens” (Galatians 6:2) and to “weep with those who weep” (Romans 12:15).

• In Buddhism, suffering is accepted as an inevitable part of life—but also as a doorway to compassion.

• In Ubuntu, a South African philosophy, the phrase “I am because we are” expresses the deep interconnectedness of all human life.

• Whether through scripture or social science, the message is the same: our suffering connects us—and our connection heals us.

What Can We Do with this wisdom?

We don’t have to have special super powers to make a difference. We have all experienced wounding. And we can all heal each other.

• Ask someone how they’re really doing—and stay to hear the answer.

• Listen without trying to fix. That’s the main go-to. And never act superior or like you have all the answers to what they are going through.

• Remind ourselves that healing can come just through human presence.

• Be willing to be real, to acknowledge your own pain and mistakes when appropriate.

• And most of all remind yourself that the good life is a shared life.

  
  

In the end, Thunderbolts is a Marvel movie. But it’s also a story about something deeper: how broken people help each other carry their burdens and pain. And how strength isn’t about how much pain you can hide—it’s about how much truth you can bear together.

The good life isn’t perfect. It’s real. And real life comes with bruises—some on the body, many on the heart. But when we come alongside each other, when we risk connection, when we offer compassion, the darkness lifts. Not all at once. But enough to let the light back in. And that, my friends, I believe is the kind of real human heroism the world needs most right now.

Now…a little side-story that I’ve been thinking about lately. It shows beautifully and simply that we don’t have to be psychologists or superheroes or spiritual gurus to do this healing work. Instead it’s about allowing ourselves to understand and to embrace our common humanity. Our common vulnerability.

Thirteen years ago, John and I were visiting one of our sons.  The cousins were all visiting as well.  At one point, one of the littles, who was in the process of learning to be potty-trained, had an accident in her diaper. 

As I changed the toddler on the floor, her two-year-old cousin pushed me a bit to the side. Then she leaned over and said to her cousin, “Don’t worry. I do dat sometimes too.”

Astounding! How did this toddler know that the messy diaper situation might be embarrassing to her cousin?  And how did she discern the exact thing that might bring some comfort, some healing, some connection? A confession. That she, too, had had this embarrassing situation happen to her. And here she was. Everything would be just fine.

When John and I forget something we meant to do, make an error of some sort, we tell each other, “I do dat sometimes too.”  And it’s true.  And it’s comforting.  And it’s bonding. And it’s healing.

How might we connect with each other, bond with each other, and journey together to the Good Life by embracing our common humanity, by acknowledging our common wounds, by being real with each other, by walking alongside each other, and by vulnerably sharing that “we do dat sometimes too”?

 After the movie, my youngest granddaughter thought Thunderbolts was the perfect movie for May - the month of mental health awareness. She claimed she felt she could be much better at being with people who were suffering emotionally after seeing the movie.