Dear Totoro, thank you.

Dear Totoro,

I don't know if you can hear me, but I’m writing anyway. Maybe the trees will carry this letter. Perhaps the wind will. Maybe it doesn’t matter — maybe just writing it is enough.

When life feels too heavy — when the noise, the grief, the sadness is too much — I think about you. About your forest and the way the world in your story feels slow and gentle, as if it's breathing in and out, regardless of what else is happening.

When I watched your movie again recently, it resonated with me in a different way. It wasn't just a cozy story anymore. It was survival. It was a reminder that even when the world feels cracked and hopeless, there’s still a place somewhere that’s soft, that’s kind, that waits for you.

In your world, things aren’t perfect.

The girls are scared. The house is falling apart, and their mom is far away and sick.

However, no one tells them to be stronger than they feel. No one demands that they smile. They are allowed to cry, to fall apart, and to still find wonder amid all of it. 

That’s what you are, Totoro.

You don’t fix anything. You don’t erase the fear.

You stand there with them—quietly, solidly — and somehow, your presence says: it’s okay to be afraid. It’s okay to hope anyway.

I needed that more than I can explain.

The way the rain sounds against the umbrella. The way the trees move is like they’re breathing. The way the world looks alive even in the middle of sadness feels like the most honest thing I’ve ever seen. Not loud, not flashy — just real.

It reminds me that maybe I can survive this, too.

Maybe I can carry all this grief and still find small magic tucked into the corners of the world. Maybe I can still sit quietly under a tree someday, and breathe, and feel the earth hold me up.

Thank you, Totoro.

Not for saving me, but for sitting with me while I learn to survive.

Love,

Sanjana