Which Anime Characters Teach Fans To Keep Moving Forward?

I get this itch for those slow, steady stories where the protagonist keeps getting up no matter how hard the world pushes back. For me that itch was scratched by longform fanworks that treat setbacks as part of the plot instead of an excuse to reset the clock. Two pieces I always point people toward are 'Harry Potter and the Methods of Rationality' — it’s a marathon of problem-solving and stubborn forward motion — and 'The Shoebox Project', which is quieter but so full of people learning to carry on together after trauma. If you want more, hunt for tags like 'redemption', 'post-canon', 'recovery', or 'found family' on Archive of Our Own. Those tags are goldmines for characters who slowly rebuild their lives, whether it’s in superhero worlds, post-apocalypse settings, or just the aftermath of a big battle. I often read these on late-night bus rides; there’s something comforting about a protagonist who refuses to give up while the city blurs past the window.

Some soundtracks just feel like they’re walking — then jogging — then sprinting forward, and I can’t help but follow. Lately I’ve been replaying 'Journey' while doing chores because the way Austin Wintory layers motifs makes every tiny task feel purposeful. The themes gently evolve, always nudging toward the next horizon, and I swear my vacuuming pace syncs up with 'Nascence'. If you want something more urgent, 'Mad Max: Fury Road' by Junkie XL is relentless in the best way: pounding percussion and repeating motifs that never let you settle. Hans Zimmer’s work on 'Inception' and 'Interstellar' also nails that forward thrust — think of those organ and string ostinatos that build like a clock. For anime, Hiroyuki Sawano’s tracks for 'Attack on Titan' keep tugging you forward with rhythmic choral stabs and driving brass. And for small, character-driven momentum, 'Celeste' by Lena Raine turns the act of climbing into musical motion; the melodies evolve as you progress, which is emotionally addictive. These are the ones I loop when I want to feel like something is always coming next, not just floating in place.

When I hit a creativity wall, I reach for podcasts that feel like a friend nudging me back into the studio. Two that I keep on repeat are 'Creative Pep Talk' (Andy J. Pizza) and 'The Accidental Creative' (Todd Henry). Both mix pep and hard-won process: Andy has this wild, energetic way of reframing the mess of making, while Todd drills into habits and routines that actually make work happen. I love listening to them while I clean brushes or sketch thumbnails — the ideas often land when my hands are busy. I also rotate in long-form interviews from 'The Unmistakable Creative' (Srinivas Rao) and 'Design Matters' (Debbie Millman) when I need perspective on longevity. Hearing someone describe their 10-year slog or a pivot that saved their career reminds me that forward motion isn’t always dramatic; sometimes it’s daily, small and stubborn. If you want a practical trick: pick one episode about habit or failure, take one concrete tip, and commit to it for a week. It’s surprisingly motivational to return to the same podcast like a ritual and notice small wins.

Some lines from films have a weird way of sneaking into my chest and pushing me forward, especially on days when the to-do list looks like a mountain. One that never fails is from 'Finding Nemo': 'Just keep swimming.' It’s simple and silly and perfect for when motivation is low — I say it under my breath while doing dishes or getting out of bed, and suddenly trudging feels more like pacing toward something rather than avoiding everything. Other favorites that actually sting in the best way are from 'Rocky' — 'It ain't about how hard you hit. It's about how hard you can get hit and keep moving forward' — and from 'The Shawshank Redemption' — 'Get busy living, or get busy dying.' Those lines are roughened by grit; they make me want to lace up my sneakers or pick up the phone and do the difficult thing. I tape one quote to my mirror and another to my laptop. They’re tiny rituals that turn hesitation into motion, and somehow that incremental momentum keeps piling up into real progress.

Grief has a way of changing the kinds of books that land in your lap, and for me some stories felt like a hand on the shoulder when everything else was noisy and numb. If you want something gently funny and oddly comforting, try 'A Man Called Ove' — it sneaks up with grief and then reminds you how small acts of kindness pull people forward. For a quieter, interior healing, 'Eleanor Oliphant Is Completely Fine' shows how routines and a stubborn heart can remake a life. If you need to cry first and then breathe, 'The Art of Racing in the Rain' uses a dog's loyalty to examine human loss in a way that somehow makes moving on feel possible. 'The Secret Life of Bees' is great if you want found-family warmth, and 'The Lovely Bones' addresses grief through memory and the idea that people keep living in different ways. I used to read these on crowded trains with headphones in—some pages were a rescue, others a release. Pick one based on whether you need comfort, catharsis, or a gentle kick; each helped me keep going in its own weird, honest way.

There's something almost surgical about how directors and crews keep a scene moving emotionally — it isn't just filming action, it's choreographing feeling. I often find myself thinking about rhythm the way musicians think about tempo: the director decides when to slow breath, when to push a camera closer, when to cut away. That could mean a long-held close-up to let an actor's microexpression land, a sudden handheld shake to inject panic, or a dolly in that says 'this moment matters' without a single word changing. In practice I notice they layer tools: performance choices, blocking, camera moves, editing rhythms, sound design, and music cues all point the viewer forward. A director might stage a character walking through a house so each door reveals new stakes, and the rhythm of beats — reaction, intent, setback — drives the emotion. I love how 'Children of Men' uses long takes to make anxiety accumulate, while 'There Will Be Blood' employs push-ins that feel like emotional tightening. If you watch with that lens, you start to catch the tiny editorial decisions that steer you. Next time you watch a scene that never feels stagnant, try counting the micro-beats; it's like reading the director's heartbeat.

There’s a simple honesty that hooks me when a protagonist keeps moving forward: give them a believable reason to, and make the cost of stopping worse than the cost of trying. I get that as a reader — late nights with a book or binge-watching a show — when I can feel the character’s push, I keep going. Writers do this by layering motives: a tangible goal (save the village, get the job, find the artifact), an emotional tether (family, guilt, love), and a simmering fear (failure, death, regret). When those three things press on a person, action feels inevitable. I like when momentum isn’t just big plot moments but small, believable choices. A protagonist may move forward because they brush their teeth, decide to open a letter, or show up for a cup of coffee that changes everything. Those tiny actions accumulate into momentum. Authors also sprinkle setbacks that feel earned, so the character’s persistence isn’t stubbornness — it’s learning. Think of 'One Piece' where Luffy’s goal is pure but his daily choices matter. Finally, stakes should evolve. If the stakes stay the same, fatigue sets in. When stakes deepen — moral, personal, societal — you understand why the character keeps risking everything. I love that sensation of being pulled along, because it mirrors how we limp forward in real life: one complicated, messy step at a time.

Some episodes just sit with me for days — they’re like tiny odes to stubbornness. Late one night I binged through a streak and kept pausing to tell myself “one more,” which turned into three. Episodes where characters refuse to quit despite everything always pull me in. Take moments from 'Buffy the Vampire Slayer' when Buffy chooses to sacrifice for the world; that stubborn hope stuck with me through a rough patch of finals. Then there’s the quiet determination in 'Breaking Bad' finales where characters push through consequences they almost invited themselves — it’s messy but compelling. I love how these shows don’t sugarcoat the cost of moving forward. Also, 'Doctor Who' often frames perseverance through humor and regret: the way the Doctor rallies companions even when the odds are bleak reminds me to go on despite being exhausted. Those are the episodes I rewatch when I need a nudge — they feel less like entertainment and more like a pep talk from fictional friends, and sometimes that’s exactly the medicine I need.