Almost ten years is a funny amount of time.
It’s long enough that you forget the tiny details. The exact smell of the air when you step through the gates. The way the music seems to be coming from everywhere and nowhere at once. The particular Disney knack for making even a crowd feel orchestrated, as if someone backstage is conducting a thousand moving pieces with a baton you can’t see.
And it’s also long enough that you start to wonder if what you remember is even the truth. Or if it’s just the version your mind saved, edited, and filed away under “things I’ve done” without much emotion attached.
That’s where I am with Disney World.
I haven’t been in a good ten years. Maybe a little more, depending on how you count. I’ll be 72 in a few weeks, which feels like the kind of milestone that quietly nudges you toward certain questions. Not the dramatic, sky-is-falling kind. More the “Do I still feel the wonder?” kind. The “Is this still for me?” kind. The “Did I miss something important by not caring as much as everyone else seemed to?” kind.
Here’s my confession, and yes, I’m saying it out loud.
I’m not sure I was ever head over heels in love with Disney World.
I know, I know. That sounds almost un-American for someone who lives in Florida, especially someone who lives only an hour away. Walt Disney World is practically its own gravitational force here. People plan their years around it. They cry when they see the castle. They wear matching shirts with inside jokes and character names, and they date their trip like it’s a family anniversary.
I’ve always watched that from the outside. Not in a snarky way. Just from a place of mild confusion.
I enjoyed it, sure. I appreciated it. I understood why it mattered to people. But I don’t remember feeling that all-consuming magic everyone talks about.
And now, at 72, I’m wondering if the problem wasn’t Walt Disney World.
Maybe it was me.
Maybe I was jaded.
Maybe I was too grown. Too busy. Too “let’s get through this efficiently.” Maybe I walked in with adult eyes and adult expectations and adult impatience. Maybe I treated it like a checklist instead of an experience.
Or maybe I’m rewriting history because I want to believe there’s still something out there that can surprise me.
Either way, I’m going back. And I’m going back with a plan.
Not a spreadsheet plan. Not a rope-drop-and-sprint plan. A plan to see it all anew.
I’m going with my son, my daughter-in-law, and my two-year-old grandson. Which immediately makes this trip different than any other trip. Because two-year-olds don’t do jaded. They don’t arrive preloaded with opinions. They don’t compare this to that. They don’t say, “Well, the last time we went, it was better.”
A two-year-old steps into something like Disney and simply believes.
Mickey is real. The parade is for him. The music is for him. The teacups are a treasure. The snack is an event. The whole place is an enormous, sparkling “YES.”
And of course, I know that watching Disney through his eyes will be fun. That’s the obvious part. That’s the easy part. That’s the part I can already picture without even being there. His little face. His little gasp. The tiny hand pointing at something huge. The toddler wobble-run toward something that feels like a miracle.
But I’m also going to be honest.
I’m a little selfish.
I don’t just want to see Disney World through his eyes. I need to know what it looks like through mine, now.
Because when you get to this age. when you’re nearing 72. You begin to understand something that isn’t scary, but is clarifying.
Time is not endless.
Which means experiences can’t be put off forever. Not the ones you feel curious about. Not the ones you might have gotten wrong the first time. Not the ones that keep tugging at your sleeve, quietly, for years.
And Disney World has been tugging at me in the most ridiculous way. Mostly because it’s right there. An hour away. Close enough that I can pretend it’s always available. Close enough that I can say “I really want to get it” without meaning it. Close enough that it’s easy to ignore.
But I don’t want to ignore it anymore.
I want to know. I want to find out if the magic is something you either have or you don’t. Or if it’s something that shows up when you’re finally ready for it.
So this is me, setting out on a small personal mission.
Can I capture the magic at 72?
And if I can. Then how?
The part I’m not doing anymore
I’m not doing Disney the way I did years ago, which was like an “I’m too good for this” adult who thinks art is more important than giving in to fun.
In the past, I probably focused on what others saw as charming, and I saw as soulless. The crowds. The waiting. The logistics. The price of everything. The way you can feel your feet swelling in real time. Facades that aren’t real, characters walking around from a cartoon I can barely remember, rides that make me sick to my stomach, playing the same song over and over again.
I’m not pretending those things don’t exist. I’m just not letting them be the headline.
This time, I’m going to Disney like someone who wants to be moved, not someone who wants to “get it done.”
Which means I’m permitting myself to slow down.
To sit when I need to sit. To snack when I want to snack. To take the long way because I want to find something pretty – something that speaks to me, not because I just recognize it. To stop and watch a street performance, even if it isn’t on any list, because I was once an actress and a dancer, and I remember taking parts to survive and try to become the character. That in itself is an art. I want to stand there and absorb the soundtrack of it all.
It also means I’m going to stop acting like wonder is childish.
Wonder is not childish. Wonder is human.
We don’t stop needing it because we have wrinkles, responsibilities, or arthritis. If anything, we need it more because life can get so. predictable. Even when it’s good. Even when it’s full. It’s still easy to go through your days on autopilot.
Disney, at its best, interrupts autopilot.
I think I finally need that interruption.
The plan. Gentle, curious, and a little indulgent
I’m not going in as a theme park warrior. I’m going in as a woman who wants to feel something.
Here’s how I’m planning to try to find the magic again.
1. I’m going to let the atmosphere be the attraction
I think part of what people love about Walt Disney World isn’t just the rides. It’s the immersion. The way each area is designed to make you forget you’re in central Florida. The landscaping. The architecture. The details that are almost silly in how thoughtful they are.
This time, I want to notice the details.
The painted signs. The hidden jokes. The little moments that exist solely to delight you. Not to sell you something. Not to rush you somewhere. Just to make you smile.
If I can’t find magic in those moments, then I truly might be a lost cause. But I don’t think I am.
2. I’m going to choose a few “musts” and let the rest happen
One of the quickest ways to kill joy is to overschedule it.
So instead of trying to do everything, I’m choosing a handful of things that feel iconic and meaningful. A classic ride or two. A show. A parade. A moment on Main Street. Maybe a big, silly snack that I would normally refuse out of principle.
And then I’m leaving open space. Real space. for wandering, resting, and stumbling into things. Space to watch. Watch the face of my grandson as he gets excited. Watch the adults who save to come back year after year because they want the joy that they find there. Watch the balloon vendor and the cast members who really love working there.
That’s where magic usually hides. In people’s faces, in the flow of the crowd, in the unplanned.
3. I’m going to say yes more than I say no
At 72, you get good at saying no. It’s a skill. Sometimes it’s a lifesaver.
But on this trip, I’m practicing “yes.”
Yes, I’ll take the photo. Yes, I’ll wear the ears. Yes, I’ll try the ridiculous dessert. Yes, I’ll watch the fireworks even if it’s late. Yes, I’ll sit on a bench and just watch people for twenty minutes.
Yes to softness. Yes to playfulness. Yes to letting it be a little bit cheesy.
Because maybe the magic is in the cheese and THAT…that is what I missed all these years.
4. I’m borrowing my grandson’s wonder. But I’m not living in it
He’s two. His magic is automatic.
Mine has to be chosen.
I can absolutely let his excitement pull me into moments I might otherwise skip. If he’s thrilled by a character. I’ll be thrilled too. If he’s in awe of a parade float. I’ll let myself be in awe along with him.
But I’m also going to claim my own experience.
I’m going to notice what touches me. What makes me feel nostalgic. What surprises me. What feels beautiful. What feels different now that I’m older.
Sometimes the most magical thing isn’t a ride. It’s a memory it unlocks. A reminder of who you used to be. Or a quiet appreciation that you’re still here. still curious. still willing to try again.
5. I’m going to protect my comfort so I can actually enjoy myself
Let’s be practical for a second. If you’re uncomfortable, you’re not going to feel magical. You’re going to feel cranky.
So yes, I’m doing the very unglamorous work of planning for comfort.
Shoes that love me back. Breaks. Water. Shade. Snacks. A pace that doesn’t punish my body. A willingness to leave early if I need to and not feel like I failed.
If I want the magic, I can’t fight my age. I have to travel with it.
And honestly. there’s something empowering about that.
Why I need to do this now
Because it’s ridiculous that I live an hour away and haven’t gone in ten years.
Because I don’t want to be the woman who keeps saying “one day” about a place that is literally right there.
Because I’m 72 in a few weeks, and I’d like to give myself something besides another candle on a cake. I’d like to give myself an experience that feels symbolic.
A return.
A reset.
A personal challenge that isn’t about fitness or productivity or achievement, but about joy.
And because I want to know if the magic is still there. Not just for my grandson. for me.
My hope
My hope is that I walk in and something in me softens.
Not because Disney is perfect. Not because I’m pretending the crowds and the heat don’t exist. But because I’m choosing to be open.
Maybe the magic isn’t something you chase. Maybe it’s something you allow.
Maybe I wasn’t head over heels before because I didn’t let myself be.
This time, I’m going to try.
I’m going to let my grandson’s laughter lead me toward wonder. I’m going to let nostalgia tap me on the shoulder. I’m going to let myself be impressed by the sheer effort it takes to create a place that millions of people have decided is worth believing in.
And if the magic shows up. even for a moment. I’ll take it.
Because at 72, I’m learning that moments are everything.
And if Walt Disney World can give me one of those moments. one that makes me feel like the world is bigger and brighter than my everyday routine. Then I want it.
