Autistic Parallels in Kpop Demon Hunters: Shame, Identity, & Community

Kpop Demon Hunters is an animated film currently streaming on Netflix in Australia. The film follows Huntrix (stylised as HUNTR/X), a K-pop trio made up of Rumi, Zoey, and Mira, who moonlight as demon hunters. Their adversaries are demons marked by distinct skin “patterns,” who steal souls to feed their ruthless king, Gwi-Ma. The seal between the demon and human worlds (the “Honmoon”) is weakening, and HUNTR/X’s ultimate mission is to create the “Golden Honmoon”—a permanent seal that will banish demons forever—through connecting with fans’ souls through music.

The film first came recommended by one of my best friends, Esther, who pointed out its intentional nods to Korean culture, such as the traditional folk art Jakhodo, which depicts a tiger and magpie together to ward off evil spirits. In KPDH, this comes to life through the delightful duo Derpy (a distractable cat with a proclivity for righting knocked-over objects) and Sussie (a behatted, exasperated magpie). To my surprise, my fiancé’s closest friends, a ragtag crew of D&D-playing metalheads in their late 30s, also raved about it. That kind of cross-pollination of fandoms had me curious.

Within the first five minutes, we meet three hard-working gal pals, Rumi, Zoey, and Mira, eating carbohydrate-rich snacks. They are running late for an important show and don’t have time to eat their instant noodles. They decide that an effective approach is to channel their frustration through the medium of pop music. Anyone who knows me knows this is peak relatability, and chums, it had me locked in.

Rumi: Shame and the Drive to Fix

Rumi is a relentless workhorse who pushes herself to the brink, fuelled by shame and the need to “fix” herself. We soon discover she conceals “patterns” on her arms, evidence of her half-demon lineage. Rumi’s story centres the film’s themes: that community and friendship can help us navigate internal battles of guilt, shame, and identity.

Zoey: The People-Pleasing Creative

Zoey is a skilled lyricist who is thoughtful, people-pleasing, and prone to overthinking. Many Autistic people, especially those who mask heavily, will recognise themselves here. Zoey embodies the pressure to anticipate everyone’s needs, to manage impressions, and to find safety in creativity while battling constant second-guessing. In KPDH, her lyrics are a way to translate her inner complexity into something that resonates with others. This is the tension of so many Autistic lives, our creative strengths flourishing under the very pressures that drain us.

Mira: The Autistic-Coded Icon

Now let me introduce you to Mira, who I resonated with most. Mira describes herself as “a difficult person” who is “overly blunt, short-fused, [and] highly aggressive.” For the first time I can recall, I saw my brand of autism on screen: the pragmatic, loyal, scrupulous, critical thinker whose “intimidating” (read: direct and passionate) vibe is juxtaposed with a cute-as-heck sense of personal style. This had me reflecting on my own developmental experiences.

As a child, I wore colourful, sparkly clothes, toted plush toys, and hung cute trinkets from my bag. By 14, I had learned that such choices invited others to infantilize me, being perceived as emotionally immature or professionally incompetent. So, I muted myself in black and grey through much of adulthood, only reclaiming my sparkle in the last three years. Seeing Mira hold her ground, adorned in a pastel fit, was powerful. I wondered what impact it would have had on me if I had this representation as a child.

We witness a vulnerable moment in which Mira, sporting fluffy bunny pyjamas, enters Rumi’s bedroom to share her feelings. Mira's sharp eye (see: pattern recognition) is telling her that Rumi is hiding something. When Rumi reassures her that she isn’t hiding anything, Mira is visibly relieved and says, “sorry, I sound nuts”. This scene pressed on the scar of an old wound, as I found myself whispering, trust your gut, Mira, under my breath.

Like many Autistic people, I was conditioned to doubt my instincts, fearing I’d be dismissed as weird or neurotic. That erosion of trust in myself caused real harm, which has only healed through consistent relational safety with friends, community, and my fiancé.

And then came the lyric that had me fist pumping. In self-acceptance anthem, 'Golden', Mira sings:

“Called a ‘problem child’ because I got too wild, but now that’s how I’m getting paid.”

I’m not exactly cheering for late-stage capitalism, but I do find a sweet satisfaction in the fact that I have unintentionally hit several neuronormative metrics of “success” by being, well... super Autistic.

Intersectionality: Multiple Minority Identities

Media about a minority group often has elements which translate to other minorities and reflect our shared experiences. Though, of course, there are unique experiences to each group. In KPDH, Celine, the group’s parent figure, instils the mantra: “Our faults and fears must never be seen.” Korean and Asian content creators have spoken of this as a common lesson taught in childhood. The resonance with Autistic experiences of social camouflaging is striking, and it got me thinking about Korean and Asian Autistic people’s experiences of navigating intersecting identities and expectations.*

There's a profound scene in the third act in which Rumi expresses her anger and pain to Celine. Rumi shares that, despite Celine's best intentions, Rumi never felt accepted or loved for all of who she was. She was taught to hide parts of herself, which only bred shame. Many Autistic people will recognise this parallel—the way masking can erode self-worth when it is demanded rather than chosen.

Enter stage left: the Saja Boys, a Kpop boy band, crooning cautionary tales in perfect harmony. In ‘Your Idol’, they sing, “Don't you know I'm here to save you? ... I'm the only one who'll love your sins.” As a survivor of intimate partner violence, this was chilling. Whether the writers intended or not, the portrayal of the Saja Boys echoes a bitter truth: feelings of shame and defectiveness, learned through relational patterns, leave us wide open to exploitation and harmful relationships.

Why This Matters for Autistic Viewers

Unsurprisingly, this film resonated with me as an Autistic person. But it also thrilled me as a clinical psychologist who works with Autlets and Autistic adults; KPDH is a valuable resource for facilitating self-reflection and learning for kids and adults alike.

So, I urge parents: please watch this film with your Autistic kids. Let them interpret, wonder, and connect the dots in their own way. Ask curious questions (resisting the urge to plant your interpretations) to help them uncover their own truths. Therapists can do the same: ask children if they’ve seen it, explore their reflections, or even use snippets in sessions as a springboard for discussion.

For Autistic adults, the film may offer validation, nostalgia, or even a bittersweet sense of “what if”. What if we’d had this representation earlier? It can also gently nudge us to ask ourselves important questions, like where have we been taught to hide? Where might we reclaim our sparkle or our trust in our instincts?

Final Thoughts

Kpop Demon Hunters is more than a vacuous, fleeting trend. It explores shame and othering, showcases Korean culture and folklore, and does so with a killer soundtrack full of pop bangers (which could easily top the charts in their own right). It is whimsical, thought-provoking, and resonant. For Autistic kids and adults alike, it’s a must-see.

*If you're interested in learning about Asian Autistic experiences, check out Asian and AuDHD