For decades, viewers searching for strong female characters in animation have found an unexpected answer not in Hollywood franchises but in the quiet, wind-swept worlds of Studio Ghibli. Under the guiding vision of Hayao Miyazaki, Ghibli’s films consistently center girls and women who are not defined by romance, sexual appeal, or exceptional violence, but by agency, ethical choice, and emotional intelligence. Long before global conversations about representation and “empowered heroines,” Miyazaki was crafting female protagonists whose strength felt deeply human—and distinctly Japanese.
Take Spirited Away, often cited as one of the greatest animated films ever made. Its heroine, Chihiro, begins as a frightened, petulant child and ends as a calm, resilient survivor of a brutal spirit economy. Her transformation is not about becoming prettier or braver in a conventional sense, but about learning shigoto (仕事, work) as dignity and survival. In a culture where diligence and perseverance—gaman (我慢, endurance)—are moral virtues, Chihiro’s growth feels culturally grounded rather than fantastical. She defeats no villain; instead, she refuses to forget her name, her parents, and her capacity for empathy.
That emphasis on everyday courage runs through Kiki’s Delivery Service, a deceptively gentle story about a teenage witch running a small business. Kiki’s loss of her powers midway through the film has often been read as a metaphor for burnout, depression, or adolescent crisis. In Japanese terms, she is confronting jibun rashisa (自分らしさ, being true to oneself) in a society that quietly pressures conformity. Her recovery does not come from romantic validation or triumph, but from rest, friendship, and relearning joy. It is a rare depiction of female strength as cyclical, fragile, and renewable.
Miyazaki’s political women are no less compelling. Nausicaä of the Valley of the Wind presents a heroine who is simultaneously a princess, scientist, and pacifist. Nausicaä’s authority comes from omoiyari (思いやり, consideration for others), extended even to toxic insects and enemies. In contrast to Western action heroines, she does not conquer nature or dominate others; she mediates, listens, and sacrifices. Her leadership reflects a distinctly non-imperial model of power, one shaped by postwar Japanese skepticism toward militarism and environmental destruction.
Perhaps Miyazaki’s most radical female figures appear in Princess Mononoke, a film that refuses moral simplicity. San, the wolf-raised girl, embodies uncompromising resistance, rage, and loyalty to the forest. She is not softened by love, nor redeemed into domesticity. Opposite her stands Lady Eboshi, an industrial leader who employs sex workers and leprosy sufferers while simultaneously devastating the environment. Eboshi’s ambition is not punished or caricatured; she is allowed mujun (矛盾, contradiction). In a medium that often flattens women into archetypes, Miyazaki insists that female power can be ethical, destructive, compassionate, and flawed—all at once.
Age, too, is treated differently in the Ghibli universe. Howl’s Moving Castle famously transforms its heroine Sophie into an old woman early in the story, stripping her of youth and beauty while granting her confidence and freedom. In a society where women often become socially invisible with age, Sophie’s curse becomes a kind of liberation. She speaks her mind, takes up space, and acts decisively. Her strength grows not despite aging, but because of it—a quietly subversive message in both Japanese and global contexts.
Even Miyazaki’s witches, from the tyrannical Yubaba to her gentler twin Zeniba in Spirited Away, reject the Western binary of good versus evil femininity. They represent different models of authority, labor, and domestic order, echoing debates in Japan about women’s roles in the public and private spheres. These older women are powerful, difficult, sometimes unlikable—and entirely autonomous.
What ultimately distinguishes Miyazaki’s female characters is that they exist outside the logic of spectacle. Their bodies are rarely eroticized, their stories rarely hinge on male approval, and their victories are often quiet. Strength, in these films, is relational rather than individualistic, grounded in care, work, memory, and choice. In an era saturated with “strong female characters” who punch harder than men but remain narratively hollow, Miyazaki’s women feel radical precisely because they are ordinary.
That may explain why, decades on, Ghibli heroines continue to resonate across cultures and generations. They are not aspirational because they are exceptional; they are aspirational because they are allowed to be fully human.
Hollywood? Pixar? Disney? Princesses, princesses, mermaids, sparkly eyelashes and sidekicks who exist mainly to applaud? Pffff. Auntie yawns. Give me the girls and women of Studio Ghibli any day, every day, preferably with wind in their hair, dirt under their nails, and absolutely no interest in being “chosen.”
What I love about Ghibli women—those created by the wonderfully stubborn Hayao Miyazaki—is that they don’t perform strength. They live it. They work. They get tired. They get scared. They mess up. They don’t strike power poses or announce themselves as icons. They just do what needs doing, and somehow that feels far more feminist than another tiara-polished “girlboss” musical number.
Take Chihiro in Spirited Away. She cries, she complains, she wants to go home—good! Auntie trusts a girl who’s honest about fear. Then she rolls up her sleeves and learns shigoto (仕事, work), not as self-improvement branding, but as survival. No makeover, no destiny speech, just quiet resilience and moral backbone. That’s strength I recognize from real women.
Or Kiki, poor exhausted Kiki, pedaling her little delivery business into burnout in Kiki’s Delivery Service. When she loses her powers, nobody tells her to “believe in herself harder.” She rests. She reconnects. She figures out who she is without constant productivity. In a world that worships hustle, that’s practically revolutionary.
And don’t get me started on the women who are allowed to be difficult. San in Princess Mononoke is angry, political, feral—and never softened to make men comfortable. Lady Eboshi? Ambitious, contradictory, protective of outcasts, destructive to nature. Hollywood would punish her or redeem her neatly. Miyazaki lets her exist in all her glorious mujun (矛盾, contradiction). Bless.
Then there’s Sophie in Howl’s Moving Castle, who becomes powerful precisely when she becomes old. Wrinkles as liberation? A spine that straightens with age? Auntie claps loudly. Aging as a source of confidence, not erasure—try pitching that to a Disney boardroom.
What Ghibli understands, and Western animation still struggles with, is that girls don’t need to be exceptional to be interesting. They don’t need magic hair, royal bloodlines, or a love interest waiting at the finish line. They need agency, dignity, and room to grow sideways. That’s why, when I see another glossy reboot with yet another “empowered princess,” I shrug. Then I go back to Ghibli, where the women are busy living—and don’t need applause while they do it.