Picture this: a caped crusader lands on a rooftop at midnight, stares moodily at the skyline, and whispers, “I can bench-press a bus… but I can’t bench-press my feelings.” And instead of brooding into the moon like a shampoo commercial, they do something wildly brave:
They write to an agony aunt.
That’s the magic of the internet’s “Hey Pandas”-style prompts: they take a familiar format (advice columns) and give it a playful twistlike asking a superhero to be vulnerable in public. The result can be hilarious, surprisingly heartfelt, and occasionally… the emotional equivalent of trying to defuse a bomb with oven mitts.
This article is your friendly, slightly snarky guide to what an “agony aunt question asked by a superhero” really reveals about modern life: identity, boundaries, burnout, emotional labor, relationships, and what happens when you’re everyone’s hero except your own.
First, what’s an “agony aunt” question, anyway?
An advice column is a long-running Q&A tradition: someone writes in with a problem, and a columnist responds with guidancesometimes practical, sometimes philosophical, sometimes delightfully blunt. In American English you’ll usually hear “advice columnist” or “advice column,” while “agony aunt” is a common nickname for the advice-giver (especially in British usage). Either way, the core idea is the same: anonymous problem, public answer, collective nodding from readers who whisper, “Oh no… that’s me too.”
Online communities remix that format by inviting everyone to participate. You don’t just read the adviceyou post your own questions, answer other people’s dilemmas, and learn what humanity is doing this week (spoiler: it’s trying its best).
Why the superhero twist works so well
Superheroes are basically walking metaphors with good hair. Their classic struggles map neatly onto everyday problems:
- Secret identity = privacy, authenticity, and “How much of myself do I owe people?”
- Saving everyone = caretaker patterns, over-functioning, and the “hero complex” trap.
- Always on call = burnout, compassion fatigue, and chronic stress.
- Villains = conflict, boundaries, workplace drama, toxic relationships, and your group chat.
So when a superhero writes to an agony aunt, it’s not just cute roleplay. It’s a clever way to talk about real life without feeling like you’re giving a TED Talk to your toaster.
The “Closed” part: what it can signal
In many online prompts, “Closed” simply means the thread isn’t accepting new answersmaybe the question hit its limit, the deadline passed, or the moderators gently took the keys away before the comment section became a fiery meteor crater.
But thematically, “closed” also fits superhero stories: secrecy, locked-down feelings, and the “I’m fine” mask that could win an Oscar. Which brings us to the good stuff…
A superhero writes in: an agony aunt letter (example)
Dear Agony Aunt,
I’m a superhero in a mid-sized city. I won’t say which one, but it has a suspicious number of rooftop water tanks and a pizza scene that’s too confident.
Here’s my problem: I can’t stop helping people. If my phone buzzes, I’m gone. If there’s a siren, I’m out the window. If someone’s crying on a bench, I’m sitting next to them like a well-meaning gargoyle.
My partner says I’m emotionally unavailable. My friends say I’m “always saving strangers but never showing up.” My boss says I’m “frequently late and also, why do you keep showing up with ash on your clothes?” (Long story. Short version: laser.)
I feel guilty when I rest. I feel guilty when I don’t. I feel guilty when I do rest because I’m pretty sure somewhere a cat is stuck in a tree and I’m being a monster.
Also… I’m tired. Like, bone-deep. I used to love this. Now I hear “help” and my brain goes, “Respectfully, no.” Then I feel horrible for thinking that.
How do I keep being a hero without losing everyone I love (including me)?
Signed,
Captain Overcommitted
Agony aunt response: Captain, you need a cape… and a boundary
Dear Captain Overcommitted,
The fact that you’re worried about this is a good sign. Truly selfish people don’t write in asking how to be less selfishthey write in asking how to make the rest of us stop noticing.
Let’s name what’s happening: you’re carrying the weight of responsibility like it’s your entire personality. That’s heroic, surebut it’s also a fast lane to burnout and resentment. Even the most powerful heroes have limits. (In your case: sleep, relationships, and apparently dry-cleaning.)
1) Trade “always” for “enough”
Being a hero doesn’t require being available to everyone, all the time. It requires being effectiveand effectiveness needs recovery. If you never rest, you become slower, more irritable, and more likely to make mistakes. That’s not morality; that’s physics.
Try this reframe: “Rest is part of the mission.” Put it on a sticky note. Put it on the Bat-Signal. Tattoo it on your emotional support water bottle.
2) Create a triage system
Right now, your brain treats every alert like it’s the apocalypse. Instead, separate problems into buckets:
- Immediate life-or-death: you respond.
- Important but not urgent: you delegate or schedule.
- Not yours to carry: you release.
This isn’t cold-hearted. It’s how emergency systems work. And yes, your nervous system is an emergency system. Treat it like one.
3) Talk to your partner like a human, not a headline
“Emotionally unavailable” often means “I don’t know what you’re feeling, and I don’t know where I fit in your life.” You can’t fix that with bigger heroics. You fix it with specific communication:
- “When the city calls, I panic that I’ll fail everyone.”
- “I’m scared you’ll leave if I’m not impressive.”
- “I don’t want to choose between you and helping, but I need a plan.”
And then you build a plan together: protected time, emergency exceptions, and clear signals (literal or figurative) for when you’re truly needed.
4) Watch for “hero complex” habits
Some helpers slide into a pattern where they feel compelled to fix everythingsometimes to avoid their own pain, sometimes to earn validation, sometimes because it’s hard to sit with helplessness.
If any of this rings a bell, be gentle with yourself. Not because the pattern is harmlessbut because shame is the world’s worst life coach. Curiosity works better.
5) Burnout isn’t laziness in a trench coat
That “Respectfully, no” reaction to someone needing help is a common sign you’re depleted. Burnout can show up as exhaustion, irritability, sleep issues, cynicism, and feeling ineffective. Compassion fatigue or empathy fatigue can look like emotional numbness, withdrawal, and a shorter fuseespecially when you’ve been exposed to stress or others’ trauma for a long time.
Your job (yes, even your hero job) is to notice early warnings and respond before your body stages a hostile takeover.
How to write a great superhero agony aunt question (so you get useful answers)
If you ever post in a “Hey Pandas” promptor any advice threadhere’s how to write a question that doesn’t accidentally summon 400 comments yelling “LEAVE HIM!!!” when you really needed “Have you tried a calendar?”
Step 1: Say what you want
Be explicit. Are you looking for:
- practical scripts?
- relationship perspective?
- help deciding between options?
- a reality check?
Example: “I’m not asking whether I should quit being a superhero. I’m asking how to set limits without guilt.”
Step 2: Give constraints (aka the rules of your universe)
Good advice respects reality. Share relevant constraints without writing your entire origin story:
- “I’m the only person with this ability.”
- “My partner didn’t sign up for constant danger.”
- “I can’t reveal my identity.”
- “My city has a limited emergency response system.”
Step 3: Identify your repeating loop
Most dilemmas aren’t one-time events; they’re patterns. Name yours:
“When I feel needed, I disappear. When I come back, I feel ashamed. Then I overcompensate with grand gestures instead of consistency.”
Step 4: Ask one clean question
Messy question: “How do I fix my life?”
Clean question: “What boundary can I set this week that protects my relationship and still lets me respond to true emergencies?”
If you’re answering: how to give advice without becoming a villain origin story
1) Lead with empathy, not ego
Advice that begins with “Well, I would never…” is usually more about the commenter than the problem.
2) Use active listening moves (even online)
Reflect what you heard before you prescribe solutions:
- “It sounds like you’re afraid rest equals failure.”
- “You care deeply, and you’re running out of fuel.”
People can’t use advice they don’t feel safe receiving.
3) Offer options, not ultimatums
Instead of “Quit!” try:
- “Can you rotate nights on-call with another hero?”
- “Can you set protected hours with one emergency exception?”
- “Can you create a community system so you’re not the only responder?”
4) Know the line between “support” and “therapy”
Advice threads can be helpful, but they’re not a substitute for professional careespecially if someone mentions self-harm, abuse, severe depression, or feeling unsafe. In those moments, the most responsible answer is: encourage real-world support and appropriate resources.
What this superhero question teaches us about real life
The superhero agony aunt format is funny because it’s absurd. But it’s powerful because it’s true: many people quietly feel responsible for everyone else’s wellbeingat work, at home, in friendships, and in families.
And modern life amplifies that pressure. We can see distress instantly, everywhere. We can be reachable always. We can be “the strong one” until we’re not. We can become a one-person emergency department for the people around us.
Here’s the gentler truth: being good doesn’t require being empty. And helping isn’t holy if it destroys you.
Quick takeaway checklist (because capes don’t come with instructions)
- Rest is part of responsibility, not a betrayal of it.
- Boundaries protect capacity: they help you keep helping.
- Consistency beats grand gestures in relationships.
- Triage prevents resentment and reduces mistakes.
- If you feel numb or cynical, don’t push harderreplenish.
Extra (about ): experiences from advice communities, agony aunts, and “everyday superheroes”
One of the most interesting things about advice spacesnewspapers, websites, podcasts, or community threadsis how often the same themes come back wearing different costumes. A superhero writes in about saving strangers and neglecting their partner; a nurse writes in about compassion fatigue; a manager writes in about being the emotional sponge for their team; a oldest sibling writes in about always “handling it” for the family. The outfits change. The emotional physics doesn’t.
Advice columnists have described the role as both intimate and paradoxical: you’re asked to offer clarity while being fully human yourself. That’s part of why readers connectgood advice isn’t delivered from a spotless pedestal. It’s often delivered from the messy middle, with empathy and hard-earned perspective. Many longtime advice readers will tell you the best answers don’t just solve the surface problem; they name the deeper pattern (“You’re afraid to disappoint,” “You’re trying to earn love,” “You’re confusing urgency with importance”).
In online communities, you also see a fascinating group dynamic: strangers become a temporary support system. Sometimes that’s beautifulpeople share scripts, resources, and a sense of “you’re not alone.” Sometimes it’s chaoticcommenters project their own wounds, argue about morals, or treat a complicated situation like a game show elimination. The healthiest threads tend to have a few common traits: people ask clarifying questions, they avoid dogpiling, and they recognize that advice is a menu, not a mandate.
There’s also a quieter kind of experience that shows up again and again: the relief of being able to tell the truth anonymously. A “superhero” can admit they’re exhausted without risking their reputation. A parent can say, “I don’t love every moment of this,” without being judged at the school pickup line. A caregiver can confess resentment and still be a good person. Naming those feelings in public (even behind a screen name) can reduce shamebecause shame thrives in secrecy, but it hates group chats.
And then there’s the boundary lesson that hits almost everyone eventually: you can’t pour from an empty cup, but you also can’t keep handing people your cup and acting surprised you’re dehydrated. People who identify as helpers often learn this the hard way. They say yes until yes tastes like metal. They rescue until rescue feels like obligation. They become the “strong one” until strength feels like isolation. The turning point is usually small and specific: scheduling protected time, delegating one task, telling a friend “I can listen for 15 minutes,” or asking for help without adding a joke to soften it.
That’s why the superhero agony aunt prompt lands: it’s a playful way to practice a serious skillbeing honest about limits. Because the most realistic superpower isn’t flight. It’s saying, “I care about you… and I’m at capacity.”
