By Mara Louise Emma Langedijk

My Superpower: Second Place Winner 

When I was a child, I used to think superpowers encompassed flying, invisibility, or having the strength to lift cars over your head with just a single finger. These were the kinds of superpowers that may have looked appealing in comic books and blockbusters. But over the years, I’ve come to realize that the power I carry is quieter instead, softer, just like how I consider myself as a person. Perhaps, it’s also more needed than any type of action on a movie screen. 

My superpower is making people feel seen.

It sounds simple. Over the years, I’ve noticed, however, it isn’t. Most people move through the world with parts of themselves hidden away, scars tucked under sleeves, grief disguised as indifference, you name it. I don’t have X-ray vision, but I’ve learned to notice the things people don’t say; I built the talent to read between the lines, the way people hesitate before answering a question, the smile that doesn’t quite reach one’s eyes. And when I notice, I let them know. That’s the power. My superpower. 

I didn’t know I had it until other people conveyed to me I did. 

“You’re so easy to talk to,” they’d say. Or “I don’t know why I’m telling you this.” People have occasionally cried in front of me. With embarrassed eyes, they would tell me, “I haven’t told anyone this, but I just knew you’d understand.” 

At first, I thought these occasions were just coincidences. Then I realized it was a pattern instead. People felt safe with me. Not because I had all the answers, but because I wasn’t trying to fix them. I was just present. I didn’t look away like others did before me. 

Growing up, I knew very well what it was like to feel invisible. Not because anyone was necessarily unkind, but because they didn’t always know how to look the way I do. I was usually the “quiet one,” the “good student,” the “listener.” People assumed I was fine because I didn’t cause any trouble. They didn’t see the days when I felt like I was disappearing because I simply didn’t show them. They didn’t read between the lines. So, I paid attention to others in the way I wished more people had paid attention to me. I listened deeply. I asked questions others didn’t think to ask. 

Making someone feel seen isn’t all about flattery or big speeches. Sometimes, it’s just about noticing the color or shape of their necklace and asking about it. Remembering the name of their parents and following up. Saying, “You don’t seem like yourself today,” and actually meaning it. It’s about being curious about the world inside someone else and letting them know they matter. 

In university, this superpower became part of who I was. In group discussions, people who never raised their hand would talk when I was the one asking the question. In group projects, I was the person who made sure the quietest person’s ideas were not overshadowed by the loudest. I began to see how this skill, this gift, could be carried into leadership, into friendship, into whatever I chose to do with my life. 

But it’s not always easy. Seeing people means sitting with hard things. It means being open to their pain, their fear, their hopes. It means sometimes carrying that weight and empathy with you, even after the conversation ends. There are days when I feel full of other people’s stories, and it’s heavy. But then someone tells me, “Thank you for listening,” and the weight shifts. It becomes something meaningful instead. 

I think of all the moments my superpower has shaped, when a friend said they felt less alone because I noticed what they were going through. When my parents told me I had a gift for empathy. When a person living on the city streets of New York told me, “You are so pure. Thank you for listening.” In a world where so many people tend to feel unseen, put away into categories, ignored in crowds, scrolled past on screens, I think the ability to see others, really see them, is not just a superpower. It’s a kind of silent rebellion against societal norms. 

I may not wear a cape of any form. But every time someone walks away from a conversation with their head held a little higher than before, I know I’ve used my power well. 

It’s saying, I won’t let your story go unheard.