★★★★★ — 4.9/5
Yu Yu Hakusho (besides maybe FMA*4.999) is a perfect series!
It will and has always stood out to me as more than just a manga series—it felt like a lifeline, a mirror, and a memory all wrapped in one. It’s one of those rare stories that blends action, heart, and character growth in such a sincere way that it doesn't just entertain—it reaches into your life and finds a home. My first encounter with it came through the Shonen Jump monthly magazine when it finally landed in America. Those mail days were like small holidays. I’d rip open the plastic wrap, skip past whatever else was inside, and go straight to the chapter that followed Yusuke Urameshi and his oddball crew. Out of all the worlds Shonen Jump introduced me to, it was theirs that felt closest to mine—chaotic, messy, loyal, and real.
At the heart of it all is Yusuke. He wasn’t polished. He didn’t have a destiny etched in stone or some pure-hearted dream to save the world. He was a kid left to figure life out on his own—raw, angry, and tired of being written off. That alone hit close to home. I wasn’t much different when I was younger. Raised by a single parent who didn’t show much love or direction, I found myself growing up more in the streets than at home. I skipped school, got into fights, brushed up against death more than once—not in some dramatic sense, but in the quiet, dangerous way kids in those environments do. Yusuke’s struggle to find purpose, to understand what he was worth even when the world didn’t seem to care, made me feel like maybe someone out there got it. That maybe I wasn’t as alone as I felt.
Togashi’s decision to make a so-called “delinquent” the hero wasn’t just clever—it was personal. Yusuke wasn’t a saint, but he had a fierce loyalty, a moral core that ran deep even when he couldn’t explain it. That rang so true to the way my own world worked growing up. The people I called friends weren’t always clean-cut or easy to understand, but the bonds we formed were real. We earned each other through shared scars, shared moments, and an unspoken promise to look out for one another.
The supporting characters only deepened that connection. Genkai, especially, felt like someone straight out of my life. She’s tough, blunt, and doesn’t hand out praise lightly—but behind that sharpness is someone who truly cares. She reminded me so much of my great-grandparents—elder figures who had seen so much more than they ever said, who challenged me with hard truths and expected me to rise, even when I didn’t believe I could. Genkai didn’t coddle Yusuke; she gave him something far more valuable—honest guidance and belief wrapped in tough love. Their bond is one of the most heartfelt relationships I’ve ever seen in any story.
The arcs of Yu Yu Hakusho—from spirit world mysteries to dark tournaments and moral reckonings—never felt like simple plot points. They were milestones in Yusuke’s growth. Each fight wasn’t just about power levels or flashy moves; it was about identity, loyalty, and choice. Sensui’s arc, especially, dug deep into the layers of good and evil, and how thin that line can become when people are broken by the world. That entire confrontation felt like something out of a conversation I would’ve had with the older kids in my neighborhood, wrestling with the big questions long before we had the tools to really answer them.
And then there’s the rest of the crew. Kuwabara, the big-hearted goofball with a code of honor you could set your watch to. I knew kids like him—hell, maybe I was him on some days. Hiei, always on guard, carrying his trauma like armor, but still showing up when it mattered. And Kurama, so composed and graceful, yet capable of terrifying strength when pushed. Each of them felt like pieces of the people I knew—or wanted to be.
Reading Yu Yu Hakusho during middle school was like finding a secret map to emotions I didn’t know how to name yet. It didn’t just entertain me—it helped me process the things I was going through. The danger, the grief, the loneliness, the need for someone to believe in me. This series had it all, not because it was trying to be profound, but because it was honest. Honest about pain, about growth, about how hard it is to hold onto yourself in a world that keeps trying to define you.
Even though my graphic novel collection was lost—an unfortunate fallout with my parent I’d rather not revisit—the stories stayed with me. They didn’t leave just because the books did. That’s the kind of impact Yu Yu Hakusho had. And still has.
I don’t collect like I used to. Maybe it’s age, or maybe it’s because once something sets the standard so high, it’s hard for anything new to match that feeling. But I still carry Yu Yu Hakusho with me. In my values, in my memories, and in the way I view storytelling. It wasn’t just a favorite series. It was a reminder that even the roughest starts can shape something meaningful—and that sometimes, it takes a street kid with a broken home and a stubborn heart to show us the true measure of strength.