Because the fantasy is always better.

Don’t shatter the illusion.

I like who I built you up to be.

The real thing is disappointing.

The most bittersweet moment in life is when you realize that your parents aren’t superheroes but just ordinary humans who make mistakes. That myth of perfection dies quietly, maybe in a fight over dinner, or in the way they forget something important, or when you notice the fear in their eyes that they used to hide so well. And it hurts, not because they failed you, but because for a while, they made you believe the world had anchors—unshakable, flawless anchors.

Everything becomes tainted because humans are flawed, they disappoint, and they aren’t special. Heroes are amazing. They do everything perfectly, they are aspirational, you can learn from them, you want to learn from them.

Then one day, you wake up, and suddenly, your teachers don’t have all the answers, your mentors have skeletons in their closets, and even the people you idolized from afar turn out to be… just people. Everyone’s winging it. The confidence, the certainty, the magic—they’re all smoke and mirrors. Carefully curated. Practiced. Fake, in the most fragile human way.

There’s a particular ache in realizing your heroes aren’t what you thought they were. It’s not just disappointment—it’s grief. You’re not just mourning who they are, you’re mourning who you believed them to be. You’re mourning the safety that came with thinking someone had it all figured out, that there were people out there immune to the mess, the fear, the indecision that haunts the rest of us.

You watch them stumble. Say the wrong thing. Reveal the pettiness behind the wisdom. You see the cracks in their armor—ego where there was once grace, bitterness behind their charm, insecurity lurking beneath confidence you swore was bulletproof. And the pedestal you built? It doesn’t just crack. It collapses.

It makes you question everything: Were you naive? Were they always like this? How could someone who once held so much weight in your life be so… ordinary? So small in the moments you needed them to be larger than life?

The illusion was beautiful. You needed it. Maybe they needed it too. Maybe they needed you to believe in their myth as much as you did. Because being seen as extraordinary is a hell of a disguise—it hides the mess underneath.

And yet, the disillusionment doesn’t just leave you empty. It leaves you wiser. It leaves you with clearer eyes. It teaches you that no one is immune to being human—not your idols, not your parents, not your mentors, not even yourself.

It stings. It strips away the magic. But sometimes, what’s left is something more real. Something you can actually build a life with. Not perfect people—but people who are still trying. And maybe that’s more trustworthy than any myth ever was.

The truth is, perfection never taught us anything. But broken people who keep trying? They teach us everything. They teach us that you don’t need to have it all figured out to be kind. That strength isn’t about not breaking, but about learning how to rebuild.

So yes, the fantasy is cleaner, shinier. The version of someone you created in your head never forgets your birthday, never says the wrong thing, never walks away. But that version can’t grow. It can’t forgive. It can’t love you back in all your mess.

Let the illusion go.

Love the flawed, the clumsy, the complicated. Let your heroes be human. Let yourself be one too.

Because even in the chaos, even in the unknowing—there’s something beautiful about realizing that maybe we don’t need perfect people to inspire us.

We just need real ones.