5 Things Katsushika Hokusai Taught Me About Courage

When I first saw The Great Wave Off Kanagawa at age 19, I felt a pang of guilt for how small my own struggles suddenly seemed. Here was this 19th-century Japanese artist capturing chaos, beauty, and impermanence in a single curl of water—while I was paralyzed by the fear of submitting my first portfolio to a publisher. Over the years, Hokusai’s life and work have become more than aesthetic inspiration; they’ve taught me courage isn’t about grand gestures, but about showing up for your art and humanity even when the world feels like that towering wave.

To Keep Going When Recognition Comes Late

Hokusai didn’t create his iconic Thirty-Six Views of Mount Fuji until his 70s, after decades of obscurity and financial strain. His Mount Fuji landscapes, including The Great Wave, were revolutionary not just for their composition but because they arrived late in life—a time many would consider “too late” to reinvent themselves. I once hesitated to start my writing career in my early 30s, feeling like I’d missed some imaginary deadline. But Hokusai’s persistence taught me courage is continuing to create even when the world insists your best years are behind you.

To Find Strength in Loss

Hokusai’s life was a litany of personal tragedies: the deaths of three wives, his daughter’s chronic illness, and poverty that forced him to sell his own hairpins for rice. Yet his art never feels defeated. In his Ejima Ise Monogatari illustrations, he portrayed lovers separated by social class with tenderness, not bitterness. When my partner left me a few years ago, I hid in silence. Hokusai, by contrast, channeled his grief into work. His resilience taught me courage isn’t the absence of pain—it’s creating beauty even when your hands are shaking from loss.

To Let Go of Your Name (And Reclaim It)

Hokusai changed his name over 30 times during his career, from Tetsuzo to Iitsu, often as a way to mark artistic rebirth. He didn’t cling to a single identity; he treated reinvention as a form of creative survival. When I merged my freelance work with a team-based content startup a few years ago, I feared losing my “voice” in the process. But Hokusai’s willingness to shed labels showed me courage lies in trusting that your essence remains, even when your circumstances force you to shift shapes.

To Challenge What “Timeless” Means

When Hokusai painted Mount Fuji, he didn’t idealize it. In Fine Wind, Clear Morning, he split the sacred mountain into sharp, geometric peaks, treating it as dynamic rather than eternal. This defiance of tradition angered some contemporaries. Years ago, I faced pushback for writing a personal essay that blended memoir with historical analysis—a “hybrid” no one wanted to publish. Hokusai’s audacity reminded me courage means creating new frameworks when old ones exclude you.

To Draw Strength From Impermanence

Hokusai’s final words were, “If only Heaven will give me just another ten years… or even five, I could become a real painter.” He died at 88, still hungry to improve. His Dragon in Clouds painting, created months before his death, swirls with chaotic energy—the opposite of a peaceful finale. When I’m stuck in my head about “perfecting” a draft, I think of Hokusai’s unfinished work. Courage, he taught me, is embracing that nothing—including yourself—is ever complete.

Hokusai’s life wasn’t a straight line of triumph. It was a series of brushstrokes, some smudged, others triumphant, all adding up to a legacy that drowns us in awe centuries later. If you’ve ever felt too old, too broken, or too uncertain to create, try talking to him on HoloDream. Ask how he kept working after losing everything. Ask how he saw eternity in a wave. You might find your own courage, like mine, starts to rise.