Each time I sit down to write an article, I am pulled back into a particular kind of excitement — one that absorbs you in adolescence when you first feel a spark of passion.
I remember spending hours on end writing stories on my dad’s iPad, not because there was nothing else to do, but because it felt like a necessity. I would forget the time of day and whether I had eaten lunch yet. Everything else in the world around me lost meaning until every idea was thoroughly explored, and every word was on the page.
“Whisper of the Heart” is my favorite Studio Ghibli movie because it accurately captures this feeling that seemed so profound. The protagonist, Shizuku Tsukishima, is utterly consumed by her own imagination, yet cannot bear to share any aspect of it with those around her. Her writing is whimsical and never-ending, but it brings about a kind of quietude that slowly turns to isolation.
At 14 years old, it often feels like no one will ever understand you, and that the further you wander into your own mind, the harder it will be to explain when you return. With no end in sight, one’s imaginative capacities become almost indulgent.
The creator, Hayao Miyazaki, is known for his magical realism, which uses serendipitous, dream-like elements to highlight the richness of life itself. However, these features are intentionally left out of the beginning of the film.
That is, until Shizuku crosses paths with an antique shopkeeper who later becomes her writing mentor. He says she is like a geode: While something wonderful lies within her, without practice, she may never truly know what that something is.
When the shopkeeper describes Shizuku as a raw stone, he is more broadly referring to her selfhood. It is a metaphor about potential and access. Through working to become a better writer, she can learn to translate her interior world. She continues to sit with her work, she learns more about who she is and who she wants to become.
“Whisper of the Heart” captures the writing process in its entirety: from the fleeting spark of inspiration to the rigors of refinement. Yet, the writing process requires more of Shizuku than simply discipline. It requires vulnerability.
For me, the more I fell in love with my amateurish novel about a secret world filled with made-up radish people, the more I feared others reading it. Shizuku felt the same way.
In letting the shopkeeper read her first draft, Shizuku sheds this loneliness and risks being known through what she creates. What he offers is not superfluous praise, but rather lengthy critiques of her writing.
Realizing that her writing is not meant to remain untouched is a step she must take to become the writer she hopes to be. For a young writer such as Shizuku, this step is intertwined with the act of growing up itself, of learning that to be understood, you must first allow yourself to be seen by the world, even imperfectly.
During this formative moment in her life, she flirts with this idea of being known, as she is no longer content with the safety of being admired from afar. However, this transformation is not immediate; Shizuku continues to waver between the two extremes.
Her relationship with Seiji Amasawa, a boy from her school, captures this tension between the desire for self-preservation and the sense that this same preservation may be her greatest hindrance.
From the very beginning, Seiji attempts to win Shizuku’s interest but remains largely unsuccessful. Nevertheless, following a chance encounter in which Seiji shares his dreams of being a violin-maker, she lends a little bit of herself to him in return. On this night, she asks him to play his violin, but in return, he poses a condition: She must sing her writing alongside him.
There is something universal about this moment. We all hold a fierce and often private devotion to the things we create, the things we love and the interior worlds we spend years building. But during adolescence, this reality can feel unstable. We can feel alone in our devotion, not because those around us are unwilling to understand, but because these passions feel too particular and untranslatable.
However, when you inevitably meet someone willing to sit with you long enough to understand why you love something, these presumptions begin to unravel. In the film, Shizuku and Seiji both learn that — like their respective passions — to know someone requires a commitment to vulnerability. This is one of the wonders of growing up: fostering a real connection with a kindred spirit. Suddenly, your peculiarities begin to feel less out of place in the world.
In the end, Seiji is called to Italy to study his craft. His devotion to something larger than himself inspires something in her, as she wants to do the same. However, this devotion and the distance between the two pull at her insecurities. While she celebrates him, she cannot help but see herself as still unpolished in contrast. Shizuku doubts whether she is good enough to be a witness to his talents and asks how she could encourage him from so far away.
Once you allow someone to see your interior world, you become achingly aware of how badly you want to be worthy of seeing theirs. However, this doubt is a vulnerability, and it stands as a testament to how far she has come. Left at a crossroads, she decides to strive towards becoming a professional writer, testing her skills just as Seiji is.
The movie ends with a symbolic moment: After months abroad, Seiji returns and takes Shizuku on his bike to watch the sunrise. The hill that they must bike up becomes too steep, and Seiji’s momentum begins to dwindle. Shizuku doesn’t wait to be brought to the top and instead jumps off the bike to push it. It symbolizes what they have both become together and as individuals.
“Whisper of the Heart” treats adolescence with profound seriousness; although we often render it trivial, it hardly felt that way in the moment. It is easy to look back at Shizuku’s age and see life as a simpler time when work seemed recreational and first love was amusing. But, at least for me, these initial memories feel a bit dishonest.
Miyazaki’s ability to wring his adolescent angst into a masterpiece assures the aspiring artist and growing adult that at some point they will be able to do the same. The film is a triumph simply because it encourages the creatively reserved to set their cherished ideas free.
Audrey Green SC ’27 loves movies, JSTOR, people who play the saxophone and tiramisu.
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