I Have the Power: A Homage to He-Man and the MOTU

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Back When Power Came in a Blister Pack

I just scored this Masters of the Universe lore book for $5.99 at Ollie’s—and it hit me right in the childhood.

Flipping through the pages, I felt that familiar surge of nostalgia. Back then, this was mythology. Our gods weren’t written in ancient texts—they were vacuum-formed, came with stiff legs, and included mini-comics that blew our tiny minds. You weren’t just buying a toy. You were buying a story. You were in Eternia. Evil sorcerers, laser guns, skull-faced villains, flying things with inexplicable wings—it was chaos, and it was awesome.

Before the cartoon, He-Man was a toy. And not just any toy—a mini barbarian demigod in furry shorts with a chest harness and a broadsword. He came with a comic book that, to a kid, felt like discovering the Dead Sea Scrolls in a clamshell blister pack. That little booklet turned your figure into a legend. Suddenly, the carpet was Eternia, and the couch cushions were Snake Mountain.

The figures were ridiculous and perfect. Musclebound and squat, sculpted like they could bench press a Buick. They never stood up right—every pose looked like they were bracing for a fart or stuck mid-power squat. Teela’s legs opened so wide you’d think she was prepping for childbirth or going for Olympic gold. And we loved every one of them.

Getting He-Man for Christmas? That was like receiving a pocket-sized Conan who’d gone to therapy and learned the value of friendship. And Battle Cat? He rode a green tiger in armor, for God’s sake. That wasn’t a toy, that was a flex.

And Castle Grayskull? Status symbol. You knew which kids had money based on whether they had it or were playing with a “Pamper 64-pack cardboard box Grayskull” like the rest of us. Stick a string of Christmas lights on it and call it magical.

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The After-School Mythology

Then came the cartoon. Sweet, sweet He-Man and the Masters of the Universe.

It aired like clockwork after school—right when we were half-finishing homework, microwaving Salisbury steak TV dinner, and trying to ignore the sound of our parents and sibs arguing down the hall. He-Man was our babysitter, our comfort food, and our weekly sermon rolled into one.

Prince Adam looked like he lost a bet at a Renaissance Fair. Magenta tights, plunging white tunic, lavender vest that screamed, “I will absolutely not fight today.” But then—bam!—he’d raise his sword, shout “By the power of Grayskull!” and transform into a shredded, bronzed savior who sounded like he sold protein powder out of a van.

And Skeletor? Peak villain. Skull for a face, voice like your aunt complaining at a diner, and the sass of a drag queen with a grudge. He hatched a new evil plan every episode, got completely wrecked, and came back like, “Next time, He-Man!” Honestly? That’s perseverance. That’s grit.

And then… Orko.

Ugh. Orko.

He was like if your anxiety became sentient, wore a wizard hat, and floated around wrecking everything. No one liked Orko. I don’t even think Orko liked Orko. But there he was, every episode, like glitter on a carpet—impossible to get rid of and somehow always in the middle of everything.

Fuck Orko. Fuck Snarf… I digress.

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He-Man Grew Up With Us

What’s wild is, He-Man aged with us.

We got the 2002 reboot with actual storytelling and fight choreography. We got Revelation—a show that asked, “What if we made you cry about a man in furry underwear?” And somehow… it worked.

The comics got cosmic and existential in the best way. Suddenly He-Man wasn’t just about sword fights. It was about legacy. Identity. Prophecy. Multiversal cosmic philosophy… in loincloths. You know. The usual.

Now, there’s talk of a new live-action film. And yeah, I’m excited. But I’m also bracing myself. Like—please, don’t make Skeletor a misunderstood antihero who vapes. Don’t make Teela the ‘real hero’, solving problems with empathy rather than brawn. Don’t make it snarky. Don’t Marvel it. Just let it be earnest. Let it be weird. Let the sword glow. Let the music swell. Let the hero believe in something. I am fine with Adam finally coming out ‘though.

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We Still Have the Power

So here I am, in my fifties, flipping through this beautiful book—and it hits me:

He-Man was never just a cartoon. It was a lifeline. A permission slip to be strong and kind. To believe that even in a world full of chaos, there was power in choosing to do good.

Sure, the toys were clunky. The animation was stiff. Orko is still incredibly annoying (Fuck Orko. Fuck Snarf). But dammit—it meant something. It still does.

And maybe—just maybe—when no one’s watching, we still whisper it to ourselves:

I have the Power.