I learned disappointment before I learned hope.

I was about six or seven years old when it settled into my body. My mom had a boyfriend who loved to talk about taking us to Disney World. He described it like magic—castles, rides, a place where dreams actually came true. I had seen the commercials on TV, but hearing it described to me made it feel real, like something meant just for us.

The trip was planned. A date was set. I crossed off days on the calendar and even named it D Day—Disney Day. Every morning, I got closer. Every night, I went to sleep more excited than the last.

When the day finally came, my suitcase was packed. I was ready. I remember sitting on the stairs outside our tiny studio apartment, waiting for him to arrive. I can still feel that moment—the anticipation, the belief, the certainty that something wonderful was about to happen.

He never showed up.

There was no explanation. No clear answers. Just silence. My mom never really knew what to say, and I’m sure I asked her the same questions over and over. Did they break up? Did he get into an accident? Was the trip ever real, or just a story meant to keep a child calm and hopeful?

That day, a belief took root: don’t get your hopes up. Expect disappointment. Magic isn’t real.

That belief followed me into adulthood. I thought it was protecting me, but it wasn’t. It was containing me. It kept me guarded. It taught me to lower my expectations before life had the chance to disappoint me again.

Before I turned 30, I finally went to Disney. Not as a child—but as a mother. I went with my son. And watching his face light up, something in me softened. It wasn’t that Disney fixed anything. It was that I realized the dream itself had never been wrong. It was just delayed.

Healing has meant revisiting the beliefs I absorbed in childhood and deciding which no longer get to lead my life. My hope wasn’t naïve. My excitement wasn’t foolish. The adults failed—not the dream.

I’m allowing myself to hope without bracing for disappointment. I’m letting excitement exist without immediately questioning it. I’m making room for magic—not the fairytale kind, but the quiet, earned kind that shows up when you stop guarding your heart.

I don’t need to prepare for disappointment to survive anymore. I’m walking forward open, present, and willing to believe again.

And that feels like healing.