Most people would say the Disneyland Resort isn’t a place you go alone.
That doing so feels equal parts pathetic and depressing.

And maybe… on paper, it is.

But I did it anyway.

I was there for a two-day excursion—an Arts Education Leadership Summit.

Work.

Professional development.

The kind of trip that comes with lanyards, schedules, and polite conversations in air-conditioned rooms. I wasn’t exactly alone. I had colleagues, met some genuinely good people. There were shared laughs, exchanged ideas.

Still… there were gaps.

And in those gaps, I wandered.

No plan. No checklist. No urgency to squeeze value out of a ticket. I didn’t chase rides or wait times or Lightning Lanes. The only exception was Pirates of the Caribbean—because some traditions aren’t optional.

The rest of the time, I let the park move around me.

At first, it felt aimless. Maybe even a little off. Like I was breaking some unspoken rule about what this place is supposed to be. But the longer I walked, the more something shifted.

I started noticing things.

Not the big things—the castles, the fireworks, the spectacle. I’ve read enough, watched enough behind-the-scenes, learned enough about how it all works to dull that kind of wonder.

It was the smaller things.

The way a family negotiates who gets the last churro.
A kid too overwhelmed to smile for a photo.
A cast member staying in character just a second longer than necessary.
The quiet corners people pass without seeing.

The park wasn’t less magical alone.

It was just… different.

Stripped of expectation.
Unscripted.
Honest in a way I didn’t expect.

And somewhere between one slow lap and the next, it stopped feeling lonely.

It started feeling like observation.
Like listening.
Like being let in on something most people rush past.

I watched people.

The guests. The cast members.

Always in motion—moving, shifting, angling for something better. A better view. A better spot in the queue. The sliver of shade that feels like winning the lottery. Everyone chasing position, even in a place designed to feel effortless.

But what caught me wasn’t the movement.

It was the pauses.

The small, unguarded moments where people let go.

A dad leaning against a railing, exhaling while his kids are finally still for a beat.
A mom slipping into a shop alone—alone—taking her time like it’s a quiet luxury.

Even the cast members.

They’re trained not to break character. That’s part of the magic. But if you watch closely enough, you’ll see it—the transitions. The half-second resets between interactions. A glance. A shift in posture. A human moment tucked between performances.

And then there were the “datapads,” as they’re called in Star Wars: Galaxy’s Edge. Faces buried in screens. Constant scrolling. Checking wait times, reservations, plans within plans. Trying to optimize the magic.

And yeah… I was one of them too.

But not for the same reasons.

I was taking photos. Facetiming my family back home. Trying, in my own way, to stretch the experience beyond just myself.

Still, I made a conscious choice to put it down.

To look up.

To let myself be a kid again—not in the loud, obvious way, but in the quiet kind of wonder. The kind that lingers. The kind that notices.

Of course, being an adult has its perks.

I signed up to build a lightsaber—something I’d wanted to do since Star Wars: Galaxy’s Edge first opened. A room full of kids with their parents, excitement in their eyes, giddy as they waved their newly constructed sabers, watching them light up for the first time.

Yeah… that was me too.

And yeah—I met Darth Vader.

I got my picture taken with Mickey. It was a group photo with my colleagues—but I got a hug. They got a high five.

I win.

I sat on the floor next to a Disney artist in California Adventure, legs crossed, just watching as a sketch slowly came to life.

I stood there, smiling like an idiot as Mater and McQueen rolled by on their way to the Cozy Cone.

I walked the surprisingly short queue at Pirates of the Caribbean, breathing in that familiar scent, dipping my hand into the water, feeling the cool mist before the first drop—right as the voice echoed: Dead men tell no tales.

And that first bite of the churro… If you know, you know.

Because some things you don’t outgrow.

You just finally give yourself permission to say yes to them.

Turns out, I wasn’t there alone. I was there paying attention.

Paying attention to the moments most people rush past.
To the spaces between the noise.
To the quiet truths that don’t announce themselves.

The same way you frame a photograph.
The same way you build a story.

Not by chasing the obvious—but by noticing what’s already there.

And in doing that, I found something I didn’t expect—not just in the park, but in myself.

A reminder that wonder doesn’t disappear. It just waits for you to slow down long enough to see it again.

And sometimes, that’s where the magic really is.

There’s more waiting at https://xinkblotz.com. Telling stories, sharing thoughts, and drinking coffee. A blend of fiction, reflection, and whatever’s brewing – one post at a time.