A Personal Fairytale
At seventeen, Disneyland was pure discovery. Later, it became tradition. I went back with friends, with partners, with family. Eventually, I brought my own kids, watching their faces light up on the same rides that had once made me believe. Seeing them step into the park was like meeting my younger self all over again, except this time, I got to stand on both sides of the magic.
Disneyland taught me that growing up doesn’t mean letting go. It means finding new ways to fall in love with wonder.
Watching the Happiest Story on Earth
This week, Disney+ released The Happiest Story on Earth: 70 Years of Disneyland. And yes, of course I watched. How could I not? It’s a scrapbook of everything I’ve loved about this place. The opening-day chaos, the parades, the pirates, the haunted mansions. It’s also a look forward, teasing Coco, Avengers Campus, and even Avatar.
Hearing Neil Patrick Harris, Jamie Lee Curtis, and Jon Favreau talk about their childhood visits felt like listening to old friends. Because that’s the thing: everyone has their Disneyland story. Mine just happens to span three decades.
70 years later
Disneyland at 70 is proof that magic ages well. The park has changed, expanded, modernized, but the feeling remains. The fireworks still sting your eyes with smoke. The music still swells at just the right moment. And yes, the candy apples still glitter in the shop windows, daring you to bite into happiness.
What struck me most watching the special wasn’t the celebrities or the sneak peeks at new attractions. It was the simple reminder: Disneyland is both a time capsule and a time machine. It holds your memories and then lets you make new ones, all in the same day.
The Love Story Continues
For me, Disneyland isn’t just a theme park. It’s the backdrop of a personal mythology, one I’ve shared with friends, family, and kids. Thirty years later, I’m still in love. Watching the 70th anniversary special felt like reading a love letter that had my name on it.
And honestly? If Disney is hiring, I’m ready. Put me in the bakery, rolling out candy apples, breathing in powdered sugar and caramel. I’ll take minimum wage in magic. Just let me keep living in the place where wonder doesn’t retire.
Because after thirty years, this isn’t nostalgia. It’s a relationship. And I’m still happily committed.
