Media Secret: Hidden Johansson

Aftermath

The weeks following the song's release were a blur. The kind of whirlwind that left me breathless but somehow grounded at the same time. The track had gone viral—not in the explosive, manufactured way Marvel's PR team orchestrated, but organically. People were sharing it, dissecting it, connecting with it.

For every headline that screamed "Marvel's Jupiter Drops Bombshell Song About Mental Health," there were ten comments from people who said it made them feel seen. Fans started tagging me in posts, sharing their own stories of struggle and survival. It was overwhelming, but not in a bad way. It felt... real. Like I'd finally broken through the glossy veneer of the life everyone thought I lived.

Becca called me the morning after the song hit its first million streams.

"Do you know what you've done?" she asked, her voice a mix of exasperation and awe.

"I have a feeling you're going to tell me," I replied, sipping my coffee and bracing myself.

"Marvel's team is in overdrive. They're trying to spin this, but honestly? They're impressed. You've hit a nerve, Tom. They're already brainstorming ways to weave this into Jupiter's narrative. Vulnerable, relatable, the hero who's just like us."

I laughed, the irony not lost on me. "Right. Because nothing says 'relatable' like a guy who can shoot energy beams out of his hands."

Becca chuckled softly. "You know what I mean. They're calling it 'authentic branding.' I just call it brave."

Her words lingered with me long after we hung up. Brave wasn't a word I'd ever used to describe myself, but maybe she was right. Maybe sharing my mess with the world wasn't just cathartic—it was courageous.

A few days later, I found myself back in the studio. Not to record, but to write. The song had unlocked something in me, a floodgate I hadn't realised was there. The words came easily now, spilling out onto paper like they'd been waiting for this moment.

Mum popped her head in as I was scribbling down lyrics, her hair tied up in a messy bun and a mug of tea in her hands. "You're at it again," she said with a smile.

"Can't stop," I admitted, gesturing to the pile of crumpled papers at my feet.

She stepped inside, setting the mug on the table. "Good. Don't stop. You've found something here, Tom. Something real. Don't let it go."

I nodded, her words settling in my chest like a warm glow.

The next chapter of my life didn't feel like a single, grand decision. It felt like a series of small, deliberate choices. Releasing the song had been the first step, but there was more I wanted to do. More I needed to do.

I started reaching out to organisations that supported mental health in the entertainment industry. I spoke at events, not as Jupiter or the "poster boy" Marvel had made me, but as Tom—the guy who'd been to the edge and found his way back.

The therapy sessions in Switzerland didn't feel like a secret anymore. I talked about them openly, about the nights I'd spent pacing and the mornings I'd spent staring at the ceiling, wondering if I'd ever feel whole again.

And slowly, the narrative started to shift.

Marvel leaned into it, of course. They crafted a storyline for Jupiter that mirrored my own journey—flawed, human, resilient. But this time, it didn't feel like a mask. It felt like an extension of the truth I was finally learning to embrace.

One evening, as I scrolled through the comments on my latest post, I came across another message that stopped me in my tracks.

"Your song saved my life. Thank you."

I stared at the words for a long time, my throat tightening. I didn't know this person, didn't know their story, but in that moment, it didn't matter. What mattered was that the song—the messy, raw, imperfect song—had reached them.

And maybe that was the point of all this. Not to be perfect, but to be real. To show up, flaws and all, and hope that it was enough.

Because sometimes, it was.