Why I'm a #DisneyAdult

I was thirteen the first time I flew on an airplane. My parents were farmers—the kind whose schedules revolved around seasons and animals, not vacation days. When we all piled into that plane together, leaving behind the bone-chilling February winds whipping across Northwest Arkansas, even my newly-teenage-self understood: this was extraordinary. 🤩

The Florida humidity hit us like a warm hug the moment we stepped off the plane. While my dad headed to his Farm Bureau conference, my mom swept my sisters and me through the gates of Walt Disney World. Twenty-five years have passed, but some moments refuse to fade. I can still see my younger sister on Rockin' Roller Coaster at Disney-MGM Studios, fingers jammed in her ears, eyes squeezed so tight her whole face scrunched up—while we dragged her back in line for "just one more time." I can still taste those nachos from the Mexico Pavilion at Epcot, the four of us huddled together as fireworks exploded overhead in bursts of gold and silver.

I didn't know it then, but that would be the first and only time I'd fly on a plane with my mama. Two years later, she was gone.

🎒 Fast forward several years. I'm twenty, studying abroad in Italy, and my girlfriend and I have just launched ourselves on an ambitious three-week backpacking adventure across Europe. Just us, our overstuffed backpacks, and a brick-thick train schedule book we lugged everywhere because smartphones didn't even exist yet.

Halfway through our journey, we landed in Berlin. The city felt gray and heavy. We walked along the remnants of the Berlin Wall, stood in the hushed stillness of Holocaust museums, our hearts weighted down by history. Then, in broad daylight, we watched a woman's purse get ripped right off her shoulder—right in front of us. We were exhausted. We were homesick. We were done.

That night, back in our hostel, we dug out our prepaid calling cards 📞 and dialed the airline to change our flights home. But halfway through the call, the line cut out. An automated voice barked something in German that I couldn't decipher. I tried again. And again. Same message. It took me several attempts to realize: my calling card had run out of minutes. We crawled into our bunks, defeated.

But morning has a way of changing everything. Sunshine streamed through the hostel windows, and suddenly the idea of quitting felt wrong. So we kept going. Next stop: Paris. We spent glorious days wandering cobblestone streets, taking the train to Normandy's windswept coast, getting lost in the golden excess of Versailles, and—because why not—Disneyland Paris.

The moment I walked through those gates, something in my chest loosened. I knew these characters. Some of the attractions were in English (I could have cried with relief). I recognized rides from that trip with my mom and sisters. It felt like slipping on a favorite sweater—familiar, warm, comforting. Disneyland Paris gave me exactly what I needed to shake off the homesickness and fall back in love with our adventure.

Fast forward again. I'm married now, a bleary-eyed young mom navigating life with a spirited three-year-old daughter and a six-month-old son. Then, during a routine checkup, our pediatrician paused. Something about our son's head measurements wasn't quite right.

Craniosynostosis. The word sat heavy in the air. In simple terms: his skull plates had fused together too early, preventing his brain from growing the way it should. The doctors assured us there was a surgery to fix it—fairly routine, they said, though nothing about opening your infant's skull feels routine when it's your baby. Our son came through it beautifully, but those months were some of the hardest I've lived through as a mother. The worry settled into my bones.

A couple of months after the surgery, my father-in-law called. "I'd like to take you all to Walt Disney World," he said. Just like that.

A few weeks later, I stood on Main Street, USA, holding my babies' hands, blinking back tears. We never could have afforded this trip on our own—not after the medical bills, the time off work, the emotional toll. But here we were. The planning alone had been therapeutic—mapping out which rides to try, where to eat, what characters we might meet. And then it happened: my daughter locked eyes with Minnie Mouse for the first time. Her whole face lit up, mouth forming a perfect O of wonder, completely transfixed. My heart melted into a puddle right then and there.

For me, Disney isn't about the brand or the merchandise or even the rides (though I do love those). Disney is wrapped up in the people I love most and the memories we've built together—from that very first trip with my mom to the countless adventures my husband and I have taken our kids on: Walt Disney World, Disneyland, Disneyland Paris, Disney Cruise Line. (My father-in-law has joined us for several trips, and it helps that he loves it as much as we do.)

I wouldn't trade these memories for anything.

Sure, I love coordinating matching family t-shirts and walking down Main Street. I love dancing ridiculously while Guardians of the Galaxy Cosmic Rewind launches us through space. I love the brain-freeze-inducing sweetness of a pineapple-coconut Dole Whip on a sweltering afternoon. But the real magic? It's the way Disney gives my family permission to just be together—to play, to be fully present, to be silly without apology.

I know how fragile and precious these moments are. I learned that lesson at thirteen, standing in Epcot watching fireworks with my mom. So I'm going to soak up every second with my kids. Every matching shirt. Every Dole Whip. Every squealed character greeting.

Because that's what being a #DisneyAdult really means to me: understanding that magic isn't about the place—it's about the people you're with and the memories you're brave enough to create together.

Your Magic Place Might Not Be Disney (And That's Okay)

Here's what I know: not everyone's happy place has mouse ears and churros. Maybe your magic happens on a white-sand beach in the Caribbean with nothing but waves and a good book. Maybe it's exploring ancient ruins on a Mediterranean cruise. Maybe it's the adrenaline rush of Universal's roller coasters or the all-you-can-eat luxury of an all-inclusive resort where your biggest decision is "pool or beach?"

But wherever your magic place is, here's what I also know: these trips don't happen by accident.

The trips that become core memories—the ones your kids will still be talking about twenty years from now—they require planning, intention, and someone in your corner who knows how to make it happen without the stress.

That's where I come in.

As a travel advisor, I specialize in the kind of vacations that become stories you tell over and over: Disney, Universal, cruises, and all-inclusive resorts. I help families like yours turn "someday" into "we're really doing this." I handle the overwhelming details so you can focus on the fun parts—like deciding which matching t-shirts to pack.

Want to start planning your family's next memory? Join my email list and you'll get:

• Insider tips for making the most of your vacation (regardless of destination)

• Money-saving strategies that don't sacrifice the magic

• Seasonal deals and exclusive offers

• Real talk about traveling with kids, from a mom who's been there

Because life is short. The memories are precious. And you deserve to have someone help you make them happen.

👉 [Join my email list here] and let's start planning your family's next adventure—wherever your magic place might be.