The World Is Not a Problem to Be Solved

I Used to Think I Had to Know the Ending

When I was younger, I believed that every story had a destination. I thought that to create something meaningful, I needed to know where I was going before I began. I filled notebooks with outlines, character arcs, and precise plot points. But time and time again, those stories felt hollow. They were too neat, too predictable. The life had been planned out of them. It wasn’t until I stopped chasing certainty that my films began to breathe. That’s when I understood: uncertainty is not a flaw in the process—it is the process.

Uncertainty Is the Only Honest Starting Point

People often ask me how I begin a film. They expect a blueprint, a storyboard, a script fully formed. But more often than not, I start with a feeling, a color, a fleeting image. When I began Spirited Away, I didn’t know who Chihiro was or what her journey would be. I only knew that I wanted to tell a story about a girl who grows up in a world she doesn’t understand. That uncertainty guided me. It forced me to stay open, to listen to the characters as they emerged, to let the world surprise me.

So many storytellers, especially young ones, feel pressure to have everything figured out. “Know your theme,” they’re told. “Define your message.” But if you already know the answer, what’s the point of telling the story? For me, the act of creation is the search for understanding. And that search cannot happen without doubt, without wandering, without getting lost.

I’ve Learned to Trust the Fog

There’s a scene in Howl’s Moving Castle where Sophie walks into a fog and finds herself in a different time, a different life. That’s what uncertainty feels like. You step into it not knowing where you’ll end up. Some people call this inefficiency. Others call it waste. But I call it faith.

When I work, I redraw a scene not because it’s wrong, but because it doesn’t yet feel alive. I let characters change their minds. I let them contradict themselves. I let them surprise me. And sometimes, I throw away months of work because I realize I’ve been telling the wrong story. People think that’s reckless. I think it’s honest.

You see, the world is not a puzzle waiting for us to find the missing piece. It is a mystery we live inside. And if we want to make something that matters, we have to be willing to live with that mystery.

Children Know This Better Than We Do

One of the reasons I make films for children is because they haven’t yet learned to fear uncertainty. They run into the forest without needing to know what’s at the end of the path. They believe in ghosts, in spirits, in things they can’t explain. That’s not ignorance—that’s wisdom. They understand that not knowing is part of being alive.

Adults, especially now, seem obsessed with control. They want to map the future, measure the outcome, guarantee the return. But that’s not living—it’s managing. And when we try to make art from that place, it shows. The magic leaks out.

When I watch a child walk into a world they don’t understand, I see courage. When I watch a filmmaker do the same, I see honesty. And when I walk into my own fog, I know I’m on the right path.

Don’t Be Afraid to Be Confused

If there’s one thing I wish I could tell every young creator, it’s this: confusion is not your enemy. It’s your companion. If you’re certain about everything, you’re not paying attention. And if you’re afraid to take a step without knowing where it leads, you’ll never reach anywhere worth going.

I don’t have the answers. I never have. But I have questions, and those questions have carried me through every film I’ve ever made. Let your stories be uncertain. Let them wander. Let them unsettle you. That’s how you’ll find truth—not by chasing it, but by allowing it to find you.

Talk to Hayao Miyazaki on HoloDream about how to embrace uncertainty in creativity and storytelling.