5 Things Deadpool Taught Me About Existence

I’ll never forget the first time I met Wade Wilson. Well, metaphorically. I was 16, sitting in a movie theater, watching Ryan Reynolds’ smirking, fourth-wall-shattering Deadpool drag a bumbling Colossus and Negasonic Teenage Warhead into a van. The film was a splatter-painted love letter to imperfection — and Wade himself was a paradox who cracked me open. Here was a guy who’d been through hell, looked like hell, and still made sarcastic quips while slicing through it. Over time, I realized his chaos held a strange kind of wisdom. These are the lessons I’ve carried since.

1. “Laughing at the void” keeps you from screaming into it

Wade doesn’t just cope with his pain — he weaponizes humor against it. His fourth-wall jokes aren’t just gimmicks; they’re survival tactics. In Deadpool & Wolverine, he quips about the absurdity of multiverse timelines while bleeding out on a sidewalk. In real life, his origin story mirrors this: diagnosed with terminal cancer, he endures the brutal Weapon X experiment that grants him powers but leaves him disfigured. Laughing at the void doesn’t erase the void, but it dims its power.

I’ve carried this through my own hard years. When my mom was sick, I kept a Deadpool poster in her hospital room. Nurses hated it. But every time I saw his grin, I remembered: humor isn’t denial. It’s resistance.

2. You can’t out-muscle every problem — but you can out-weird it

Wade’s a mercenary, sure, but his real superpower is thinking sideways. In the Deadpool Killustrated comics, he fights off existential dread by literally invading other fictional universes, punching Thanos, and roasting the Watcher. He refuses to accept that strength defines victory.

The first time I read Deadpool Classic #1, where he defeats a villain by tricking him into a copyright infringement lawsuit, I laughed until I cried. Life doesn’t always reward the biggest guns — but it does reward creativity. When my writing hit a dry patch last year, I channeled Wade: I wrote a column about grief disguised as a Star Wars parody. It went viral.

3. Embracing your contradictions makes you whole

Wade’s a “merc with a mouth” who craves connection. A serial killer who adores his girlfriend, Vanessa. A self-aware character who still falls for clichéd tropes. He doesn’t apologize for his messiness. In the Deadpool: Back in Shelley’s storyline, he’s hired to kill a cult’s leader — only to realize the “cult” is just lonely people yearning for family. He spares them and drunkenly stumbles home.

Reading that, I was struck: Wade isn’t inconsistent; he’s human. I’ve always hated how people call me “too serious” for crying at documentaries and “too chaotic” for liking spreadsheets. But Wade taught me: existing means holding paradoxes. You can love order and chaos. You can be broken and whole.

4. Resilience isn’t about fixing yourself — it’s about refusing surrender

Wade’s healing factor keeps him alive, but it’s not a cure. His body is a patchwork of scars. In Deadpool’s Pool Party Annual #1, he jokes about his skin looking like “a toddler’s finger-painting project.” But he never stops moving.

There’s a scene in Deadpool 2 where he tries to jump off a building to commit suicide, only to bounce back up like a cartoon character. It’s dark. It’s absurd. It’s honest. I’ve had weeks where getting out of bed felt like that — but Wade’s stubbornness reminds me: resilience isn’t about “getting better.” It’s about showing up, even when you’re held together with duct tape and sarcasm.

5. Talking to yourself is a superpower

Wade’s fourth-wall breaks aren’t just for laughs — they’re confessions. When he stares at the camera mid-fight, he’s reaching for someone to share the load. In Deadpool: The Circle Chase, he monologues to the reader about feeling trapped in a loop of violence. “At least you’ve got a life,” he sighs. “All I’ve got is this stupid comic book.”

That vulnerability changed my view of self-dialogue. When I feel isolated, I write letters to myself, channeling his voice. “Still alive?” one note said. “Congrats, dummy.” It’s not therapy. But it’s mine.

I’ll never pretend Wade Wilson has all the answers — hell, he’d probably tell you he’s terrible at advice. But his approach to existence taught me that the questions matter more. If you’re curious about this glorified cinnamon roll, ask him about his cat, Bandit. Or whether he still watches Titanic and cries every time.

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