I’ve Loved Spider-Man For As Long As I Can Remember. It Started With Watching The Fox Kids Cartoon

I’ve loved Spider-Man for as long as I can remember. It started with watching the Fox Kids cartoon as a four-year-old, recording episodes on VHS, I was drawn to Peter Parker’s scrappy, awkward resilience. It didn’t matter that I didn’t fully understand the plot; I knew it mattered. My dad and uncle had collected comics before I was born, so the mythos was already in the background of my childhood. I’d flip through their old issues with reverence, even if I didn’t understand all the references. It felt like peering into a world that had always been there, waiting for me to join.

By third grade, it became my thing. A handful of comics for Christmas was all it took to hook me. I started collecting Ultimate Spider-Man, following it all the way to issue #100. I didn’t just read the stories, I studied them, absorbing the characters, the pacing, and the shifts in art styles. Spider-Man’s world became a lens through which I saw my own, and I began adopting parts of him into my life. Photography became a hobby because Peter had his camera. Science caught my attention because of his intellect and drive to use his powers for good. Spider-Man wasn’t just a character I admired; he was shaping my identity.

One night, a friend was staying over, and I launched into an impromptu presentation on Spider-Man’s artistic evolution. I compared the anxious geometry of Steve Ditko to the bold expressiveness of John Romita Sr., and the sleek energy of Mark Bagley. I wasn’t trying to impress her; I just had so much love and curiosity for the character that it spilled out. Years later, she still remembers it, laughing at how passionately I broke it down. Now, whenever she sees Spider-Man art, she tries to remember the details I shared, even if she doesn’t remember the names of the artists.

Eventually, I stopped collecting regularly around the “Brand New Day” arc. It wasn’t that I stopped caring. The reset of Peter’s lore felt like a betrayal. Years of growth and emotional stakes were erased, and it felt like Peter wasn’t being allowed to grow up. That frustrated me. But I didn’t leave entirely. I kept up with the comics, watched the movies, and played the latest games. No matter how much time passes, there’s always a part of me swinging alongside him.

Sometimes, I boot up one of the Spider-Man games just to swing around, not to finish missions or chase collectibles, but for the sheer joy of it. It’s comforting, like muscle memory for the soul. The rhythm of web-slinging through the city, the rush of wind, the hum of the world below, it calms me. It’s a reminder of being a kid, imagining I could swing between buildings and feeling that sense of possibility.

Spider-Man has always felt like the most human of superheroes. He’s not the strongest, the smartest, or the most selfless. He’s tired, bruised, and sometimes almost ready to quit. But he doesn’t. He keeps showing up because he knows someone has to. That’s why I’ve always needed him, to see that it’s okay to be flawed, to try even when it’s hard.

Sometimes, I think I was raised more by Spider-Man than by anyone else. When I needed guidance, Peter’s quiet resilience stuck with me. He wasn’t rich or invincible; he was exhausted, broke, overwhelmed, and he still showed up. His sense of responsibility wasn’t glamorous; it was messy, earned through failure and trying again. Through him, I learned how to carry pain without letting it consume me and how to make the right choice, even when it costs something. He made it okay to stumble, to feel deeply, and still want to be good. In a strange way, he became the model for the adult I wanted to be.