With Great Responsibility Comes Great Power: The Lesson Jim Kwik Taught Me

superheroyou with great responsibility comes great power the lesson jim kwik taught me

“With great responsibility comes great power.” – Jim Kwik

If you read the above quote and didn’t think anything of it, then read it again because it’s not what you think it is.

I first heard it when I was listening to James Altucher interview Jim Kwik, founder of SuperheroYou. It blew my mind and made me jealous. I love unconventional wisdom – I wish I’d thought of it.

But I am writing about it. Perhaps that’s the next best thing.


I suppose it started when we began sitting next to each other at work. As we got to know each other, I found myself more drawn to her.

We were in one of the downstairs rooms at work, talking about a business we wanted to start together, when she said it.

“The more I get to know you… the more attracted I am to you.”

We started talking about “our” life together. She was still with her partner at the time but she told me it was coming to an end and so “our” life didn’t seem impossible.

Ok, her still being with her partner bothered me. But I put it out of my mind because it wasn’t important. Right?

We got drunk with some other friends before our work Christmas party, and that party was the first time I really touched her.

We sat next to each other. Of course we did. She whispered something to me that made me unglue my hand from my leg and grip her thigh. She didn’t pull away. She liked it. Probably not as much as I liked it.

We danced together. People talked. But not as much as I talked to myself when I was laying in bed that night.

The next day she told me we shouldn’t have done what we’d done. I felt like my heart had fallen into my stomach. “I suppose not,” I replied. She was still with her partner.

“I guess the truth comes out when I’m drunk,” she said. And then she turned back to her computer screen.

“So, she likes me, and she knows I like her, and she’s going to deliberately ignore that?”

It wasn’t the beginning of the end. But it should’ve been.


“This isn’t even that good. I think I could do better.”

This was the thought that led to me starting to write. I owe the author an awkward thank you.

I was writing a post once a week and posting it to my Facebook page. I wouldn’t spend much time on it. A couple of hours at most. I enjoyed it but I didn’t take it seriously.

And then I wanted more.

There was one website I read almost every day and I thought, “I want to write for them.” I wanted to be a creator as well as a consumer.

So I did. I started writing more and getting better feedback.

I originally started writing because I enjoyed it but also because I thought it might get me some coaching clients. But it got to the point where I didn’t care about clients. I cared about writing. I cared about getting better. I cared about writing every day.

And then I wanted more.

“I want to commit to writing.”


“We’re going to be offering voluntary redundancy.”

I had only one thought.

“I’m taking it.”

I almost didn’t dare to believe it. This was it. My chance. My way out.

I was filled with possibility. I could finally do what I truly wanted to do. I could be self-employed. A writer.

“What will my parents think?”

That stopped me. I couldn’t see them being particularly ecstatic.

I thought about what it would be like if I didn’t take voluntary redundancy. If I did whatever my parents wanted me to do. If I didn’t do what, in my heart, in my realest me, I knew was right.

I’d be saying “no” to myself. I’d be letting myself down. I’d be unhappy.

I couldn’t do that. I wouldn’t do that. Not again.

I told my parents over dinner. I think the silence might’ve contributed to my symptoms of tinnitus.

They weren’t happy. They asked a lot of “what if?” questions. They didn’t want me to do it.

Voices were raised and that’s when I raised mine.

“I’m not asking for your permission. I’m telling you because I love you.”

I’d never spoken to them like that. I knew it. They knew it.

It was time to stop using the excuse “but my parents don’t approve.” I was an adult. Only weak adults refuse to take responsibility.

Knowing I was going to take it made me feel more powerful than I’d ever felt. I was making a huge decision. One I knew was right.

You know how good that feels. So why do we so often refuse to take full responsibility?

I had an emotional last day at work. I cried. But as I walked out of the building I didn’t even bother to look back and say goodbye to my old life. I didn’t need to. I knew what the building looked like. I’d walked into it hundreds of times wishing it was the last time. It was time to move forward. It was time to become even more of who I knew I was.

Now, I write every day. I grow my audience every day. I get closer to being a full-time self-employed writer every day.

I work harder than ever. I work longer than ever.

I’m happier than ever.

I took responsibility. I took my power.


“I want to commit to writing.”

That’s what I wrote in my journal and it scared me.

What if I couldn’t do it? What if it didn’t make me successful? What if it was a waste of time?

That was fear talking. That was my mask talking.

Once I decided to commit to writing, once I agreed with myself I’d write 1,000 words every day, I felt relieved.

It was like I’d been waiting for this. Like my subconscious had been waiting for me to realize that I’d wanted something to throw myself into.

I felt control. I felt free.

There’s power in responsibility.


“Our” story should’ve been over but I insisted on writing more.

The amount of times I’d come home from work and feel empty and hopeless and cry. It was too much. We weren’t even together. We’d never even kissed even though everybody thought we must have.

I had to tell her everything. I had to tell her I was falling for her. I had to tell her I’d told my parents she might be “The One.”

She told me she didn’t want to stop being “homies.”

I thought I’d be crushed. I felt more like I was released.

I smiled because I finally realized I could take responsibility.

I could finally stop letting her lead my life. I could finally stop putting her above me. I could finally stop treating myself with less than I deserved.

It was when I took responsibility that I felt power.

And because of that power I felt like I could just about move forward. I felt like I could let her go. I felt like I could get away from being a weak impersonation of me and towards being the real me.

It was only then that I truly understood your words, Jim Kwik. Though I didn’t know it yet.

With great responsibility comes great power.

Liked this? Check out 10 Small Ways You Can Feel Like A Superhero!

Written by Matt Hearnden

“With great responsibility comes great power.” – Jim Kwik

If you read the above quote and didn’t think anything of it, then read it again because it’s not what you think it is.

I first heard it when I was listening to James Altucher interview Jim Kwik, founder of SuperheroYou. It blew my mind and made me jealous. I love unconventional wisdom – I wish I’d thought of it.

But I am writing about it. Perhaps that’s the next best thing.


I suppose it started when we began sitting next to each other at work. As we got to know each other, I found myself more drawn to her.

We were in one of the downstairs rooms at work, talking about a business we wanted to start together, when she said it.

“The more I get to know you… the more attracted I am to you.”

We started talking about “our” life together. She was still with her partner at the time but she told me it was coming to an end and so “our” life didn’t seem impossible.

Ok, her still being with her partner bothered me. But I put it out of my mind because it wasn’t important. Right?

We got drunk with some other friends before our work Christmas party, and that party was the first time I really touched her.

We sat next to each other. Of course we did. She whispered something to me that made me unglue my hand from my leg and grip her thigh. She didn’t pull away. She liked it. Probably not as much as I liked it.

We danced together. People talked. But not as much as I talked to myself when I was laying in bed that night.

The next day she told me we shouldn’t have done what we’d done. I felt like my heart had fallen into my stomach. “I suppose not,” I replied. She was still with her partner.

“I guess the truth comes out when I’m drunk,” she said. And then she turned back to her computer screen.

“So, she likes me, and she knows I like her, and she’s going to deliberately ignore that?”

It wasn’t the beginning of the end. But it should’ve been.


“This isn’t even that good. I think I could do better.”

This was the thought that led to me starting to write. I owe the author an awkward thank you.

I was writing a post once a week and posting it to my Facebook page. I wouldn’t spend much time on it. A couple of hours at most. I enjoyed it but I didn’t take it seriously.

And then I wanted more.

There was one website I read almost every day and I thought, “I want to write for them.” I wanted to be a creator as well as a consumer.

So I did. I started writing more and getting better feedback.

I originally started writing because I enjoyed it but also because I thought it might get me some coaching clients. But it got to the point where I didn’t care about clients. I cared about writing. I cared about getting better. I cared about writing every day.

And then I wanted more.

“I want to commit to writing.”


“We’re going to be offering voluntary redundancy.”

I had only one thought.

“I’m taking it.”

I almost didn’t dare to believe it. This was it. My chance. My way out.

I was filled with possibility. I could finally do what I truly wanted to do. I could be self-employed. A writer.

“What will my parents think?”

That stopped me. I couldn’t see them being particularly ecstatic.

I thought about what it would be like if I didn’t take voluntary redundancy. If I did whatever my parents wanted me to do. If I didn’t do what, in my heart, in my realest me, I knew was right.

I’d be saying “no” to myself. I’d be letting myself down. I’d be unhappy.

I couldn’t do that. I wouldn’t do that. Not again.

I told my parents over dinner. I think the silence might’ve contributed to my symptoms of tinnitus.

They weren’t happy. They asked a lot of “what if?” questions. They didn’t want me to do it.

Voices were raised and that’s when I raised mine.

“I’m not asking for your permission. I’m telling you because I love you.”

I’d never spoken to them like that. I knew it. They knew it.

It was time to stop using the excuse “but my parents don’t approve.” I was an adult. Only weak adults refuse to take responsibility.

Knowing I was going to take it made me feel more powerful than I’d ever felt. I was making a huge decision. One I knew was right.

You know how good that feels. So why do we so often refuse to take full responsibility?

I had an emotional last day at work. I cried. But as I walked out of the building I didn’t even bother to look back and say goodbye to my old life. I didn’t need to. I knew what the building looked like. I’d walked into it hundreds of times wishing it was the last time. It was time to move forward. It was time to become even more of who I knew I was.

Now, I write every day. I grow my audience every day. I get closer to being a full-time self-employed writer every day.

I work harder than ever. I work longer than ever.

I’m happier than ever.

I took responsibility. I took my power.


“I want to commit to writing.”

That’s what I wrote in my journal and it scared me.

What if I couldn’t do it? What if it didn’t make me successful? What if it was a waste of time?

That was fear talking. That was my mask talking.

Once I decided to commit to writing, once I agreed with myself I’d write 1,000 words every day, I felt relieved.

It was like I’d been waiting for this. Like my subconscious had been waiting for me to realize that I’d wanted something to throw myself into.

I felt control. I felt free.

There’s power in responsibility.


“Our” story should’ve been over but I insisted on writing more.

The amount of times I’d come home from work and feel empty and hopeless and cry. It was too much. We weren’t even together. We’d never even kissed even though everybody thought we must have.

I had to tell her everything. I had to tell her I was falling for her. I had to tell her I’d told my parents she might be “The One.”

She told me she didn’t want to stop being “homies.”

I thought I’d be crushed. I felt more like I was released.

I smiled because I finally realized I could take responsibility.

I could finally stop letting her lead my life. I could finally stop putting her above me. I could finally stop treating myself with less than I deserved.

It was when I took responsibility that I felt power.

And because of that power I felt like I could just about move forward. I felt like I could let her go. I felt like I could get away from being a weak impersonation of me and towards being the real me.

It was only then that I truly understood your words, Jim Kwik. Though I didn’t know it yet.

With great responsibility comes great power.

Liked this? Check out 10 Small Ways You Can Feel Like A Superhero!

Written by Matt Hearnden

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