Finding Connection in Animation: Guidance During Personal Hard Times
September 30, 2025 - Liv Sato
When the world went quiet during quarantine, it sometimes felt like I was living inside a loop. Wake up, check the news, sit at my desk for hours, and repeat. The outside world was minimized to the walls of my room, and even though I was “connected” digitally, texting my friends and liking their Instagram posts, the days felt oddly empty.
In that time of stillness and discomfort, I discovered something that not only entertained me but also helped me persevere. This was an animation. Not just in the traditional sense of cartoons or movies, but the whole spectrum. Fan-made edits, anime, and apps like Gacha Life or Toca Boca, where I could create my own animated stories. Animation became a spark of joy that reminded me that imagination doesn’t get quarantined simply because of access to resources, tools, or knowledge.
One of the first shows I binge-watched during lockdown, due to popularity on TikTok, was Demon Slayer. I still remember how the rich colors of the scenery, the delicate folds of characters’ kimonos, and the haunting music of the duels pulled me into the screen. For a few hours every day in between my Zoom classes, I wasn’t just sitting in my room; I was running through misty mountains, fighting demons, and holding onto hope when everything felt dark. Not only did I get to explore a new realm of cultural media, but I also found it a better way of using my time than simply scrolling on TikTok or messaging my friends on Snapchat.
Even smaller things mattered. I’d stay up late watching random Gacha animations on YouTube. They were short stories made by fans using avatars and music. They were simple, often heartfelt, sometimes silly, but they carried the raw creativity of people trying to express themselves. Before the quarantine, I had a mild idea of what these videos were due to all my classmates raving about them. This time, I was inspired to tinker with Gacha myself, piecing together little stories with characters and soundtracks. It didn’t matter that I wasn’t a “professional” animator. What mattered was creating something.
Additionally, music became a bridge between me and the worlds I loved. Animated shows and games always had soundtracks that stuck with me, but during quarantine, they became something more.
Take Persona 5’s soundtrack, with its jazzy, rebellious energy. I was brought to attention to it thanks to its trendiness on TikTok. Listening to “Life Will Change” while I was stuck in my room made me feel like maybe, yes, life could change from how gloomy it actually was at the time. Friends near me had sick family members who were facing near-death situations. I needed to isolate from my working parents due to the risk of getting COVID-19 secondhand from their workplace. When everything seemed to be collapsing on me, it gave me energy to keep going.
One of the strangest aspects of quarantine was how disconnected I felt from the people I usually saw every day. I rarely had things to text my friends about – sometimes texts didn’t feel as authentic as genuine conversations I used to have with them. But animation somehow brought me back into the community.
I’d talk with my old friends online about the latest Attack on Titan episode, debating theories and yelling about cliffhangers. We weren’t physically together, but those conversations felt alive. Animation gave us common ground, something beyond the endless news cycle to bond over. Sometimes, we even called and had watch-a-thons for new movies that came out. Aside from television itself, we were able to connect through things such as matching merch or plans to buy merch together.
Under TikTok and YouTube videos, Gacha or Roblox creations, I felt a weird sense of connection. People were sharing how certain stories made them cry, laugh, or heal. Strangers from all over the world were experiencing the same emotions I was, at the same time, all united together through the same internet medium. It reminded me that quarantine wasn’t just a hard time for me. We were all in this together.
Sometimes, I made my own contributions. I’d create a short Gacha skit or share an edit with a favorite song. From this, I learned how to use software such as KineMaster or ProCreate, which I still use in my academics to this day (creating club posters, editing videos for electives, etc). It wasn’t polished, but people still left kind comments, and that felt powerful. Animation turned isolation into interaction. It gave me a way to connect, even when I couldn’t leave my room.
Watching all this creativity on my screen sparked something in me. I picked up sketching again, inspired by the character designs I saw in cartoons and games. I tried editing music with clips of my favorite shows, just to experiment. I even spent hours messing around in Gacha Life, creating storylines about friendships, rivalries, and adventures, which were tiny reflections of what I was missing in real life.
Animation showed me that creativity doesn’t have to be perfect to matter. It reminded me that expression, even in its simplest form, is powerful. Quarantine could have flattened my days into pure monotony, but animation nudged me to make something of my own.
What I love most about animation is how it captures small joys. A goofy filler episode in an anime can brighten a whole evening. A single animated expression, a character blushing, a dramatic eye-roll, can say more than words. Even short, looping GIFs of my favorite characters dancing or laughing found their way onto my feed, and those tiny bursts of motion somehow lifted me.
In my own life, animation taught me to notice those little joys, too. The sunlight hitting my wall in the morning, the way lo-fi beats blended with quiet background noises, the comfort of late-night ramen during a binge-watch. Animation reminded me that happiness doesn’t always come in grand gestures. It’s hidden in the details, like the frame-by-frame care animators put into their art.
Looking back now, animation wasn’t just a quarantine hobby. It was a teacher, a companion, and a mirror. It taught me resilience, where in a lot of shows or series, characters kept going despite countless obstacles. It taught me about loneliness and friendship. It gave me tools for expression, whether through mini movies or doodles. Most of all, it gave me joy. A real, tangible joy that cut through the heaviness of isolation.
Even now, long after lockdowns ended, I still feel that spark when I dive into an animated world. Every time I watch a new show, discover a fan-made animation, or get lost in an old soundtrack, I’m reminded of how animation once carried me through one of the hardest chapters of life. Because of its significant mark in my life, I don’t think that joy will ever leave me.
Some people say animation is “just for kids.” I couldn’t disagree more. If anything, quarantine proved to me that animation is for anyone who needs it. It’s a medium that doesn’t just tell stories. It heals, inspires, and connects.
For me, it was the thread that stitched together music, art, and human connection during a time when everything else felt frayed. It was proof that joy can exist even in the darkest days, and sometimes, all it takes is a colorful frame, a heartfelt soundtrack, and a little imagination.
