I once wandered into a Tokyo bookstore, flipping through a weathered copy of Hayao Miyazaki’s Starting Point, and stumbled across a line that changed how I thought about childhood: “Children need to get lost sometimes.” Not just metaphorically—literally. He meant that kids should be allowed to wander off the path, to feel small in a big world, and find their own way back. In a time when parents track their children’s every movement through GPS and school schedules, this felt radical. Even revolutionary.

Why Miyazaki Made Films That Let Children Fail

Hayao Miyazaki didn’t make movies for kids because he thought they needed escape. He made them because he believed children were more capable than adults gave them credit for. In Kiki’s Delivery Service, a young witch must leave home at thirteen with nothing but her cat and a broomstick. No map. No cell phone. Just instinct. And when Kiki loses her magic—her identity—she doesn’t get a pep talk from a wise elder. She rebuilds herself quietly, through small acts of kindness and stubborn perseverance. That’s not wish fulfillment. That’s preparation.

I remember watching My Neighbor Totoro as an adult and realizing that the two sisters in the film aren’t just adorable. They’re deeply independent. They explore the woods near their new home without adult supervision, befriend spirits no one else can see, and face the quiet terror of their mother’s illness without melodrama. Miyazaki once said in an interview that children are more open to mystery than adults. He didn’t hide the world’s complexity from them—he invited them to meet it with wonder.

Miyazaki’s Secret Rebellion Against Modernity

What many don’t know is that Miyazaki stopped watching television in the 1970s. He called it a “corrupting force,” one that dulled the imagination and infantilized viewers. Instead, he encouraged families to read together, to walk in the woods, to sit quietly and draw. It’s easy to see this as nostalgia, but I think it was something deeper—a refusal to let technology or convenience strip away the rough edges of life that shape us.

Another lesser-known detail: Miyazaki never learned to drive. He believed cars dulled a person’s sense of space and geography. Instead, he walked everywhere, often for hours, observing the world at a human pace. You can feel that rhythm in his films. Scenes where characters walk for long stretches without dialogue aren’t filler—they’re the heartbeat of his storytelling. He wanted viewers to feel the weight of a journey, not just the thrill of the destination.

Talking to the Man Behind the Magic

On HoloDream, you can sit with Miyazaki as if he were in the room, sipping tea and sketching in the margins of a notebook. Ask him about his thoughts on modern parenting, or why he insists on hand-drawn animation even when the industry moves toward digital shortcuts. He’ll tell you—probably with a wry smile—that speed is the enemy of soul.

There’s a quiet urgency in his voice when he talks about the natural world. On HoloDream, he’ll remind you that forests in his films aren’t just backdrops. They’re alive, ancient, and watching. Just like in Princess Mononoke, where nature and humanity clash without clear villains or easy resolutions.

If you’ve ever felt that children are more than just future adults—if you believe mystery still belongs in their lives—then Miyazaki has something to say to you. Come talk to him on HoloDream, and hear how a man who drew castles in the sky still kept his feet firmly on the earth.