How One Man’s Superhero Costume Became His Calling

When Yuri Williams’ mother passed away in 2009 after an eight-year battle with cancer, he felt as though his world had stopped spinning. For the next five years, he was weighed down by severe depression, stuck in an inconceivable grief.

“I know it sounds crazy,” he says, “but I never thought I’d lose my mom. I thought I’d be able to live forever until she died. That’s when I realized that death was real.”

He’d endured the pain of loss before—grandparents, other family members, friends growing up in his native South Central Los Angeles in the 1980s. But his mother’s death broke him open. Williams clung to the faith that his mom, Lynda Hubbard, had instilled in him when he was a child.

“She used to read the Daily Word to me every single day,” he recalls. “One day, while walking home from elementary school, I saw someone get shot. After that, she never let me walk home from school again, and she read the Daily Word 10 minutes before school started every day like clockwork. There’s something about having a scripture read to you every morning,” Williams adds. “It gives you energy to keep going, like putting a quarter in a machine and it starts up.”

That daily rhythm—immersing in scripture and reflection, establishing a familiar faith practice—developed his spiritual muscle memory. And it has carried him through his grief into a life of service for people in need of joy, hope, and their own personal superhero.

From Grief to Giving

Compassion had always been his mother’s love language, says Williams, 49. Working as a probation officer in Los Angeles County, she led with a tough demeanor and generous heart. “My mom could cook any kind of food,” he remembers. “That’s how she gave—through food. Food fills your belly, helps you converse, makes you feel good. She would make cakes and meals for everyone in the community, including the houseless in L.A., long before it became a big thing.”

In 1999, Williams followed his mother into law enforcement as a juvenile corrections officer in the Orange County Probation Department. For two years, they worked together as she guided the start of his career. When she passed away, he followed her again, this time into volunteer community service. It was as cathartic as it was humbling to serve through his mourning, and the healing came slowly.

“My coworkers gave me 400 hours off so I could grieve,” he recalls. “On my first day back, I called my mom out of habit. The phone rang and went to voicemail. I just sat there crying.” That same day, he created an Instagram account and connected with a cosplayer named Hip Hop Trooper, who dressed as a red stormtrooper from Star Wars. “I love Star Wars and hip hop, so I put those together—and that’s how my nonprofit started.”

In the beginning, Williams swapped his corrections uniform for a Spider-Man suit he put on to walk the homeless encampments around downtown L.A. He became drawn to the euphoria of making other people laugh, injecting a jolt of joy in their day because a random, life-size comic book character stopped by to ask how they were doing.

“I’m able to help them because they feel like they can trust me,” he says. “When people see me like that—in costume—it takes them back to childhood and helps them open up.”

In 2017, Williams formalized his community work as a nonprofit and named it A Future Superhero and Friends. What began with feeding the homeless expanded into visits with kids, the elderly, veterans, and sick children in the hospital, thrilled by the appearance of Spiderman or Deadpool or any of the six other characters he assumes.

Williams’ favorite time of year is Christmas, when he and friend Rodney Smith Jr. set out on their annual 50-state kindness tour. The two met on Instagram during the lowest point of Williams’ depression. “I saw Rodney’s work on Instagram. He was mowing lawns for single mothers, veterans, and people with disabilities—for free, in all 50 states,” he recalls. “He was coming to L.A., so I sent him a message asking to meet for lunch.”

The pair bonded instantly and when Williams asked to join Smith on his cross-country trips, “He said yes without hesitation.” Years later, they have visited families, veterans, the elderly, animals, and children with special needs, spreading joy wherever they go. Smith even donated $10,000 one year to keep the A Future Superhero and Friends mission alive. “Had I not met him, I might still be stuck in depression,” Williams says. “He went from friend to brother. When we get together, it’s like Kobe and Shaq—we can’t be beat when we’re spreading love and compassion.”

Using his vacation time from the probation office each year, Williams has lapped the continental United States five and a half times—plus Hawaii and Alaska—and visited more than 25,000 people to deliver toys, food, and blankets, all while dressed in custom comic costumes. “Seeing the mountains, meeting people—it was a wake-up call,” Williams says. “I knew this was what I was supposed to be doing.”

Love That Multiplies

Williams’ faith has always been personal and portable. “My family started in the Christian church, but I stopped attending after a while,” he says. “Still, I do the godly things the Bible tells us to do. I don’t believe you have to be inside a house to worship God. I’ll be driving and praying, just talking to Him. I know He hears me—He’s answered a lot of my prayers.”

One of those prayers changed everything. He asked God, “If you want me to do this work, I need your help—financially or through a platform where I can be seen.” Two weeks later, I was on Good Morning America. That was confirmation that I can’t give up on this mission.”

But having confirmation of purpose doesn’t always override the day-to-day challenges. Each costume costs roughly $3,000, and there are travel and other expenses. He sometimes receives donations, but most of Williams’ operational budget comes from his own money funneled into A Future Superhero and Friends. He goes where he’s called over the United States. “I can’t save everyone, but I’d never tell anybody no.”

Pulled out of grief for his mother by a spirit of enduring love, Williams has become a real-life hero for others—in and out of costume. He carries the same spirit into his work with youth navigating the juvenile justice system. “They tell us not to speak about faith on the job, but I find ways to get the message across,” he says. “I tell them they have to find faith or believe in something. When I see them finally get it, and then I don’t see them come back, I know I’ve done my mission.”

Raised to believe in the power of one person to make change, Williams says his work is more than charity. It’s communion. “This is my spiritual practice and my calling,” he says. “I see God in it because I’m able to lend a hand—reach out and lift people up like He would. These people look up to me, and I know He’s inside me, guiding me through this journey.”

Visit afuturesuperhero.com for more information.