Thunderbolts and the Nervous System: A Somatic Therapist’s Take on Marvel’s Most Traumatized Team
What if your favorite Marvel characters were really just dysregulated nervous systems in costume? In this unique review, somatic therapist Craig Thomas McAdams offers a deeply personal and professional take on Thunderbolts (2025), exploring how trauma, co-regulation, and romantic repair shape the film’s emotional core.
A review by Craig Thomas McAdams, LPCC | Somatic Therapist & MBSEP for Couples Creator
(Based on Mindfulness-Based Somatic Emotional Processing created by Dr. Robert Weisz and Dr. Daniel Blackwood)
(Philosophical and Physiological Spoilers)
Thunderbolts is not just another Marvel film. It’s a cinematic initiation into the neurobiology of trauma, the nervous system’s longing for safety, and the alchemy of healing through relationship. As a somatic therapist working with couples to restore connection through body-based emotional processing, I found this story to be a surprisingly poignant reflection of the work I witness every day.
Trauma Is Not a Character Flaw
Each character in Thunderbolts carries trauma not as a side plot, but as the central driver of their behavior. These aren’t clean-cut heroes, they're dysregulated nervous systems in armor. Sentry, in particular, embodies the split we all carry between our light (authentic self) and our Void (traumatized protector). Watching him unravel felt like watching myself at times on my own healing journey, or like holding space for a client mid-session: the moment when the body can no longer hold the pressure of suppression, and the truth breaks through.
This is where Thunderbolts excels, not just in spectacle, but in honesty. Trauma doesn’t make you weak. It fragments your system in an attempt to protect you. Healing isn’t about killing the Void. It’s about turning toward it with presence, breath, and co-regulation. These aren’t anti-heroes, they are survivors seeking atttunement.
Romantic Regulation and Repair in Motion
Yelena Belova’s arc is, in many ways, an MBSEP for Couples case study. The film is elevated by Florence Pugh's grounded, embodied portrayal of Yelena: grief-stricken, guarded, and hyper-independent. She begins disconnected from her body and her relationships. But slowly, through moments of eye contact, reluctant vulnerability, and, yes, touch, she allows herself to be seen. Her scenes with Bob especially model what I call romantic regulation: the process of becoming safe enough to receive love again after betrayal.
It reminded me of so many couples I work with, arms crossed, hearts aching, waiting for proof it’s safe to soften. Yelena and Bob don’t heal because someone fixes them. They heal because they hold each other with presence through the Void. That distinction is everything.
Heroism Through the Lens of the Nervous System
In Thunderbolts, heroism doesn’t look like domination. It looks like surrender. It looks like someone saying, “I’m terrified, and I’m still here.” The fight isn’t just against the external villain, it’s against internal collapse, freeze, fawn, and the conflict between the prefrontal cortex and the limbic and autonomic nervous systems. Every brave choice to show up as oneself is a shift in autonomic state. It’s polyvagal heroism, and it’s more powerful than flight or fight alone.
Integration as the Final Act
By the end, what moved me most wasn’t the action, it was the integration. These characters don’t end with neat resolutions. They end with choice. To stay. To reach out. To name the pain rather than numb it. To simply be with each other in the pain. To me, that’s what MBSEP for Couples is all about: not bypassing our suffering, but learning to hold it with presence so it becomes part of our power.
Final Reflection
Thunderbolts is a story of fragmented souls, Yelena, Bob, John Walker, Ava, and Alexei, learning to co-regulate. Even the psychopathic Valentina, brilliantly embodied by Julia Louis-Dreyfus, gets a brief moment of what it’s like to be resonated with in her trauma response. The film becomes a testament to the truth that healing is messy, nonlinear, and sacred. It reminds us that the work of returning to ourselves often looks like trembling hands, softened gazes, and the breath that says, "I’m not alone anymore."
In that way, it’s not just a superhero film. It’s a mirror of our own becoming.
