There are stories that try to capture the experience of growing up, of finding yourself, of what it means to create — and then there’s Jellyfish Can’t Swim in the Night, a series that doesn’t just tell a coming-of-age story but breathes life into the messy, beautiful, and often painful process of becoming an artist. Watching it felt like peeling away layers of myself I hadn’t touched in years — that quiet fear of not being good enough, the desperate longing for someone to look at what you’ve made and say: I see you. I understand. It’s rare for a show to hit that deeply.

From the very first episode, Jellyfish asks the questions most stories are too scared to voice: Why do we create? What do we hope to find in our art? And what happens when no one cares about what we’re trying to say? But rather than offering neat answers, the show sits with these questions — sometimes uncomfortably — and lets its characters live through them. The episodic structure works perfectly here, giving each of the four girls — Mahiru, Kano, Mei, and Kiui — the space to breathe, to struggle, to fail, and to claw their way back toward something resembling hope.

At the center is Mahiru, and honestly, I can’t remember the last time I saw a protagonist this fragile, this real. She starts the series as a ghost of herself — a girl who once loved to draw but stopped because no one ever really cared. Her art was met with apathy, sometimes ridicule, and somewhere along the line, Mahiru internalized the worst possible belief: that her art had no worth. That she had no worth. Watching her navigate that — stumbling, backsliding, getting lost in the need for validation — it was heartbreaking because it felt so familiar. Her entire journey is about relearning that art is worth making, even if no one’s clapping.

What makes Mahiru’s arc so special is that the show refuses to give her an easy out. Yes, Kano notices her talent. Yes, for a moment, Mahiru feels seen. But Jellyfish knows that validation from others is fleeting. Mahiru’s breaking point comes when someone else — Kuroppu — draws fanart that gets more attention. And suddenly, she’s right back where she started, terrified that she’s replaceable. That scene hit me like a punch. Because haven’t we all been there? Comparing ourselves to others, wondering if we’ll ever be good enough.

Her real growth doesn’t come from proving she’s better — it comes from choosing to draw for herself. Her refusal to compromise her style for Yukine is the most powerful moment in the series. It’s not just a win — it’s Mahiru reclaiming her voice. And the jellyfish motif — it’s honestly perfect. This idea of drifting, of being carried by the currents, feeling directionless — but still beautiful, still alive. Mahiru is that jellyfish, learning she doesn’t have to swim like everyone else to be valid.

Kano, on the other hand, is the sun around which everything orbits — and yet she’s the most lost. From the start, Kano is the force pulling everyone together, the one with the big dreams, the big energy, the need to matter. But there’s a desperation to her — a girl so defined by being Nodoka, the idol, that she has no idea who she is without the applause. The show doesn’t shy away from that — from showing how deeply her self-worth is tied to what others think of her.

Her arc is about breaking that cycle, but it’s messy. Painfully messy. When Mahiru chooses to work for Yukine, Kano’s world collapses. Because what is she if Mahiru doesn’t need her anymore? That’s the real heart of Kano’s character — she’s not angry because Mahiru betrayed JELEE. She’s scared. Scared of being left behind. Scared that without Mahiru, she disappears. And the show doesn’t wrap that up with a bow. Kano doesn’t have a magic moment of self-realization. Even at the end, she’s still searching. But she’s trying — and that’s what makes her so achingly human.

Mei might be the sleeper hit of the series. What starts as a one-note fangirl slowly, beautifully transforms into something raw and powerful. Mei is the audience — the one who watches, who admires, who dreams. But she doesn’t stay there. Her journey is about stepping out of the audience and onto the stage. That stream, the one where she explodes with emotion — it’s messy, it’s unpolished, and it’s perfect. Because that’s what creating is — it’s screaming into the void and hoping someone hears you.

What really broke me was her confession to Kano — not just the “I love you” but everything that came before it. That desperate need to be seen not as a fan, but as someone who matters. The show is smart enough not to label that love — is it romantic? Platonic? Something else entirely? It doesn’t matter. What matters is Mei finally choosing to be honest, choosing to stand in front of someone she idolized and say, “I’m here. I exist.”

And then there’s Kiui — my personal favorite. Because if Mahiru is the voice of self-doubt, and Kano is the desperate need for validation, Kiui is the quiet, overlooked question of identity. Watching her navigate the duality of Nox and Kiui felt like watching someone learn to breathe for the first time. Her VTuber persona gave her a place where she could be loud, be seen — but only behind a screen. Seeing her step out from that — not just existing online, but claiming space in the real world — was one of the most cathartic things I’ve ever watched.

The way Jellyfish handles her gender identity — subtle, compassionate, never exploitative — is incredible. Kiui doesn’t owe anyone an explanation. Her arc isn’t about “coming out” in a traditional sense, but about realizing she doesn’t have to explain herself at all. That scene where she declares Nox is her, not a character, but a part of who she is — I cried. Because it’s so rare to see a story handle identity with that much respect.

What ties it all together is Shibuya — this chaotic, glittering city that feels alive. Jellyfish turns Shibuya into a character, a canvas that shifts with the girls’ emotions. Lonely when Mahiru feels invisible. Blinding when Kano’s drowning in expectations. Soft and full of wonder when they’re together, dreaming. And the aquarium imagery — flawless. Water, light, reflection — all of it mirrors their inner worlds. That final scene, with Mahiru’s projection turning Shibuya into a glowing sea — it’s everything. It’s art becoming reality. It’s dreams made visible.

And the ending — God, the ending. No neat resolutions. No perfect futures promised. Just four girls, painting over the past — not to erase it, but to build something new. It’s not a goodbye. It’s a beginning.

Jellyfish Can’t Swim in the Night left me wrecked in the best way. It’s a show about art, yes. But more than that, it’s a show about why we make art. About the fear, the joy, the loneliness, and the rare, precious moments when someone looks at what you’ve made and says, “I see you.” It reminded me why I write, why any of us create — not for applause, not for validation, but because it’s the only way to make sense of this messy, beautiful life. And maybe, just maybe, to find people who’ll swim alongside us, even in the darkest nights.