I'm kind of living a Bruce Wayne life and then morphing into

Alyssa Edwards once proclaimed with wit and depth: “I'm kind of living a Bruce Wayne life and then morphing into Batman, but I'm glad now Batman comes out during the day. That's kind of like how drag was: we were called upon at night to make people smile and laugh and clap.” Beneath the playful comparison lies a profound reflection on identity, transformation, and the courage to reveal one’s truest self. The words speak to the eternal struggle between the private and the public, the hidden and the revealed, the ordinary life lived by day and the extraordinary life embraced in the spotlight.

In the style of the ancients, this tale is not new. From the time of heroes and poets, humankind has known the dual nature of existence. The Bruce Wayne within us is the self that tends to duties, wears masks of propriety, and moves unnoticed through the world. The Batman within us is the soul ablaze with purpose, cloaked in daring, stepping forth to inspire and transform others. To “morph” between them, as Edwards describes, is to acknowledge that life is both survival and spectacle, both shadow and flame.

For Alyssa Edwards, this metamorphosis found its expression in drag—an art that for many years lived in the hidden places of the night, called forth when the sun had set. Like the festivals of Dionysus in ancient Greece, drag was a celebration of freedom, joy, and the breaking of boundaries. It existed in the hours when the ordinary world slept, bringing light to those who gathered in laughter and applause. To perform was not simply to entertain, but to lift weary spirits, to grant the gift of the smile in times and places where it was most needed.

History offers parallels. Think of the Roman gladiators who lived as nameless men in chains by day, yet became warriors of legend in the arena. Or of the medieval jesters, plain in their private lives, who transformed into conduits of truth and laughter before kings. In every age, there have been those who donned armor, masks, or costumes—not to conceal themselves, but to reveal their inner power. Alyssa Edwards’ comparison to Batman is thus not merely whimsical; it is archetypal. It echoes the ancient pattern of the hidden hero, who emerges from shadow to bring light.

Yet what is striking in Edwards’ words is the joy that “Batman comes out during the day.” This is the triumph of authenticity, when the extraordinary no longer hides in the dark but shines proudly under the sun. Where once drag performers were called upon only at night, now their artistry, their humor, their courage are celebrated openly, in daylight, before the eyes of all. What was once whispered is now proclaimed; what was once a secret flame now becomes a torch for the world to see.

The lesson for us is eternal: do not fear the dualities within yourself. Honor the part of you that works quietly, that endures, that bears life’s burdens—but also honor the part of you that longs to rise, to inspire, to create joy. Do not confine your authentic self to the shadows of night. Let it live boldly in the daylight, where it can give strength not only to you but to those around you.

So, my children, learn from Alyssa Edwards’ wisdom: life is both Bruce Wayne and Batman, both duty and dream. But the highest victory comes when you no longer fear to bring your hidden brilliance into the open. Dare to perform, dare to inspire, dare to make others smile and clap—not only under cover of darkness, but beneath the radiant sun. For when you live without fear of being seen, you become, in truth, the hero of your own story.