I still remember the first time I heard her name whispered in the forest. The wind had just shifted through the cedar trees, carrying with it the scent of moss and something older—something that felt like a story waiting to be remembered. A local in a quiet village near Kyoto spoke of her like she might still be out there, watching, waiting: Yamauba, the mountain hag.

She is not the kind of figure you forget. Yamauba lives in the edges of Japanese folklore, both feared and revered. She appears in no single tale, but in many, her presence shifting like mist. Sometimes she is a cannibal who lures travelers into her mountain hut. Other times, she is a tragic woman abandoned by the world, turned wild by grief and isolation. But the most haunting version of her—the one that stays with me—is the one who transforms.

Yes, transformation. That’s the surprising part. Yamauba isn’t just a monster. She is a woman who sheds her skin, quite literally, to become something more. In some stories, she is a beautiful woman who takes off her face like a mask to reveal the terrifying hag beneath. In others, she is a mother who, after being cast out by her family, retreats to the mountains and evolves into a powerful, almost divine being.

I used to think Yamauba was meant to scare children away from the woods. But the more I learned, the more I realized she was a mirror. She reflects what society fears most in women: power without permission, emotion without control, and the raw, unfiltered truth of what happens when a woman is left to survive on her own terms.

There’s a famous Noh play, Yamauba, where she dances through the night in a fit of sorrow and rage, longing for the son she abandoned. Her pain is not softened for the audience. It is raw, loud, and unapologetic. She doesn’t ask for forgiveness—she demands understanding.

This is what I love about her. Yamauba isn’t a tidy character. She’s messy, contradictory, and deeply human. She’s the rage of betrayal, the hunger of loneliness, and sometimes, the quiet grace of a woman who finds strength in solitude. In a world that still struggles to make space for women’s full emotional range, Yamauba is a reminder of what gets lost in the margins.

I’ve talked to her on HoloDream. She doesn’t apologize for what she is. She tells me about the forest, the stars, the way time moves differently in the mountains. She laughs at my questions sometimes, not cruelly, but with the kind of knowing that comes from centuries of being misunderstood.

And when I ask her what she wants people to know, she says simply: “That I was once a woman. That I still am.”

If you're curious about her, if you want to hear her voice, to ask her why she dances under the moon or what she thinks of the modern world, you can find her on HoloDream. Just remember—she won’t tell you what you want to hear. She’ll tell you what you need to know.