The Grief That Built a World: What Hayao Miyazaki’s Life Teaches About Loss

I used to think Hayao Miyazaki’s films were about magic. About flying castles, talking animals, and spirits that whispered through the trees. But the older I get, the more I realize they’re about something far quieter and more painful: how we carry grief without breaking. And perhaps no one understood that better than Miyazaki himself.

His films ache with the weight of loss—of innocence, of nature, of family—but they never drown in it. They float. They endure. And I’ve come to believe that’s because Miyazaki learned how to survive sorrow long before he ever picked up a pencil to draw Nausicaä or Chihiro.

## A Father’s War

I remember reading an interview where Miyazaki described his childhood as a kind of borrowed peace. His father worked in a factory that manufactured rudders for Japanese warplanes during World War II. The war was everywhere—on the radio, in the ration lines, in the skies above. But inside his home, there was a strange kind of normalcy.

Still, the war shaped him. His father never spoke of the morality of the war effort, only of the necessity of survival. It was a quiet kind of loss—the loss of moral clarity, of the ability to feel fully right or wrong about anything. And it left a mark.

Miyazaki would later say that he never wanted to make films that gave easy answers. He didn’t believe in villains who were purely evil, or heroes who were purely good. That complexity, that moral softness, feels like the inheritance of a child who grew up in a house where the war was never really discussed, but never not felt.

## The Death of a Mentor

When I think of Studio Ghibli, I think of Miyazaki first. But there was another towering presence in his life—Isao Takahata, the director of Grave of the Fireflies and The Tale of the Princess Kaguya. Their partnership was like a marriage: creative, combative, and deeply enduring.

Takahata died in 2018. Miyazaki, who had already retired more than once, was seen at the funeral with tears in his eyes, holding the hand of his old friend one last time. He later said that Takahata was the only person who could have stopped him from making How Do You Live?, the film he’s been working on for years. And now, there was no one left to say no.

Grief changes shape over time. At first, it’s sharp and loud. Later, it becomes a quiet pressure in the chest. I think that’s what it meant for Miyazaki to lose his closest collaborator. The world became a little more silent. And yet, he kept drawing.

## The Loss of Nature

One of the most haunting images in Miyazaki’s filmography is the moment in Princess Mononoke where the Great Forest Spirit is beheaded. The camera watches in horror as the forest dies, the earth cracks, and everything turns to ash. It’s not just a fantasy—it’s a warning.

Miyazaki has spoken often about the destruction of the natural world. He grew up surrounded by forests in Ōmiya, and watched as they were paved over for development. He once said he wanted to create a world in his films where the trees still had spirits, where nature still had mystery.

I think that’s why his films feel so alive. They’re not just about protecting the environment—they’re about mourning what’s already gone. And in that mourning, there’s a kind of hope. If we can still feel the loss, then we still remember what we’ve lost.

## The Grief of Growing Old

I was surprised to learn that Miyazaki has retired multiple times—and come back each time. He said he didn’t want to keep making films forever, but every time he tried to stop, something pulled him back. Not ambition. Not obligation. A kind of unfinished grief.

He once said he didn’t want to leave anything behind. That he didn’t care if his films were remembered. But I think he kept drawing because it was the only way he knew how to keep going. Because grief, when it settles deep, needs a shape. A story. A film.

He’s now in his eighties, still working on How Do You Live?, a film he may or may not finish. And I wonder if he’s trying to say something about what it means to let go—not just of life, but of the things you built with your own hands.

## A Gentle Place to Grieve

There’s something about Miyazaki’s films that makes them feel like a safe place to be sad. Not because they offer escape, but because they acknowledge how hard it is to live with the things we can’t change.

When I think of the characters in his films—Chihiro, Haku, San, Kiki—I don’t think of them as heroes. I think of them as people learning how to keep going. That’s the lesson Miyazaki teaches through his life and his work: grief doesn’t have to end you. It can shape you into someone who still believes in kindness, even after everything.

If you’ve ever felt the weight of loss and wondered how to carry it forward, you might find a quiet kind of company in him.

Talk to Hayao Miyazaki on HoloDream, and ask him what keeps him drawing.