Discovering familiar magic on a first trip to Disney World

At the start of the trip, I told my children, seven-year-old Julian and five-year-old Paloma, not to compare Disney World to Disneyland. Our job was to take each new experience as free from expectation as possible. But comparison is the engine of judgment, and I was judging.

The sprawl threw me. When people say Disney World is a city, they don't just mean its self-governing municipality—they mean the scale: six parks and dozens of resorts, all stitched together by highways, ferries, the monorail, and skyways. I grew up devoted to Disneyland. We live in Los Angeles, and my kids are growing up that way too. Our Magic Kingdom is quaint, compact to the point of being claustrophobic; I like to say it's intimate. Disney World, in the months leading up to the trip, felt like a logistics marathon. But we would do three parks in three days—I had fully committed.

When I admit to being a lifelong Disneyland devotee, other adults tend to unload their skepticism onto me. It's so crowded, it's so corporate, it's so expensive. “Sure,” I say. It's all of those things. But it is also, without fail, absolute magic for children. That magic can work for adults too, once we stop pretending we're above it.

And yet, for all my go-with-the-flow philosophy, I'm a big believer in “rope drop.” This term refers to the early years, when Disneyland's Magic Kingdom opened in the morning and employees would literally drop a rope. Today it means: Get there when it opens. But in truth it means: Get there 15 to 30 minutes before the park opens. This sounds excessive, but the crowds and wait times affect the quality of your experience. At Disney World, getting ahead of the crowds means you stay ahead all day.

Which is to say: We did not remotely make rope drop. West Coast jet lag had me dragging my children from bed. But once my boyfriend, Adam, and I were properly caffeinated, the children properly snacked up, we walked from our in-park lodgings, Disney's Contemporary Resort, to see about Disney World's Magic Kingdom, a park we thought we understood. My plan was a ride, a snack, another ride. All I knew was that we had a much-coveted Lightning Lane Single Pass for the Seven Dwarfs Mine Train, a roller coaster we don't have back in Disneyland, at 8 p.m., which seemed nuts except that it would be only 5 p.m. in California. Still, we had to make it till dark.

That meant that after a lost shoe in Pirates of the Caribbean (how my son lost his sneaker stepping into the boat is truly beyond me, but a cast member in a pirate costume handled it gracefully and gave us a free pair of Mickey Crocs, which continues to make me laugh out loud), we went back to the hotel to swim. French fries and hot dogs, a chicken salad for the adults. The strange luxury of lying still while the kids went down the water slide again and again.

I love the transformation of a Disney park at dusk, when the lights come on. What's so familiar during the day is gradually more fantastical when it's illuminated and twinkling. And the Seven Dwarfs roller coaster did not disappoint in the darkness.

As I was trying to negotiate our exit from the park, Paloma begged to go on The Magic Carpets of Aladdin. I sighed. It's not a compelling ride—just a basic spinning contraption—and it was 9:30 at night. But I wanted to end the day on a yes. There was no wait, and the minute we rose into the air—BANG: fireworks. Because of Paloma we had the best view in the park as we spun through the sky, as if the fireworks were just for us.

My expectations were low for Epcot, the second of the four theme parks here. I had been told it was sleepier, more adult, with more green space—even with Guardians of the Galaxy: Cosmic Rewind, which is said to be the best ride in all the parks (Adam and Julian would agree). But that turned out to be exactly why I loved it. Epcot is like a world's fair that's never ended, a surreal journey through other cultures, a place that's optimistic about the future.

Adam had heard about “drinking around the world,” an unofficial sport in which adults “travel” through Epot's World Showcase—elegantly and expertly staged buildings and shops that re-create everywhere from Morocco and France to Japan and China—imbibing the traditional alcoholic drinks and snacks: Champagne, sake, cardamom buns from the Norway pavilion. While we could not partake like some of the adults around us (people in Epcot were partying!), the afternoon heat found Adam and I inside the dark Mexican pyramid at the tiny La Cava del Tequila. The kids were miraculously asleep in a double stroller that I was so grateful I'd rented for the park, and we took down two margaritas and excellent guacamole. This bar would be cool by New York City standards, so within Disney World, it's worth seeking out. We were feeling good about ourselves, strolling back through China, contemplating another drink. We even paused to take a photo with the Disney photographer—just us, two slightly buzzed and underslept adults who were averaging 20,000 steps a day. Then, as it does in Florida, the skies opened up. It was a theatrical downpour. My children were screaming while it took me forever to get the ponchos out of the backpack. By the time we found shelter, I was soaked as if I had been swimming. When those conditions passed, I was still enchanted with Epcot.

Our last day was at Hollywood Studios, which is known to have the most technically advanced and thrilling rides. And we finally achieved what felt unattainable: rope drop. This meant we got to go on the Slinky Dog Dash roller coaster before it became a 110-minute wait for the rest of the day. As advertised, after rope drop we were in the flow. The day unfolded easily, each ride a “win,” excluding The Twilight Zone Tower of Terror, which caused me to break out in cold sweat and scream, “Please make it stop!” while my five-year-old comforted me. For what it's worth, she loved it.

That may be Disney's quietest achievement. It collapses the distance between parent and child. You want the same things. You believe in the same story. But I was excited to show Adam everything Star Wars. I'd been to Star Wars: Galaxy's Edge in California—it was like being swallowed by an immersive piece of art. I grew up on the Star Wars movies, and my kids are into the mythology. None of the cinematic details are lost on us.

Star Wars: Rise of the Resistance, famously costing somewhere in the range of $400 million to $500 million, is, in my opinion, the greatest ride ever built. We have one at Disneyland: a 20-minute, fully immersive escape story told over four parts—via architecture, performance, moving vehicles, and massive panoramic screens that simulate space. And while I believe Star Wars: Rise of the Resistance is the apex of what a theme park can do, the highlight of the day was Oga's Cantina. “Epic,” Adam said as we slid into a windowless, chilled, dim bar that seemed to be lifted straight out of 1977.

Oga's Cantina felt like an outpost in a lawless galaxy where a droid DJ spins upbeat electronic music. Clusters of people holding unnaturally glowing, extremely theatrical drinks were crowded around the bar. Our bartender guided the kids away from the famous “blue milk” and to the Carbon Freeze, a mocktail made with dry ice and tiny green apple popping pearls that smoked and fizzed and spun. The music, the low light, the playful chaos, and the constant motion of bartenders lighting things on fire or pouring out foam creations made us all a little giddy. I did not mind my more restrained Sylop, Oga's take on a mezcal margarita, either.

But by midafternoon on the third day, I was exhausted. So were the kids, and it took no negotiating to head back to the hotel early (this is one of the less-touted benefits of rope drop—we were done with the rides by 2:00 pm). We were all overwhelmed and overstimulated. There had been copious meltdowns standing in line with Julian and Paloma, who were somewhere between dancing and wrestling with each other, bumping into other people, and occasionally lying on the ground. I thought, a hundred times, this trip was an insane thing to do to myself. There is no way around it—a Disney World vacation is work. The crowds, the heat, the waiting. And like most difficult things, it can be intensely rewarding if you surrender to it.

As we glided back to the hotel on the Skyliner gondolas, the children finally quiet, with the swampland, lagoons, and highways beneath us, I thought about Adam's pronouncement in Oga's Cantina. It is epic. Not in the sense of spectacle alone, though there is plenty of that, but in the older sense of mythmaking—of stories built to outlast us, to be retold and passed down. Disney World, for all its excess, is doing something ancient at an enormous scale: giving shape to wonder and inviting us to live inside it.

My mother took me to Disneyland because her parents had taken her. Now I take my children. What I remember from my childhood is not the rides or the lines but the rare alignment it created between my mother and me: the excitement and delight, both of us absorbed in the fantasy. That may be Disney's quietest achievement. It collapses the distance between parent and child. For a few hours, or a few days, you want the same things. You believe in the same story. It is engineered joy, and against all odds, it still works.

How to plan a trip to Disney World

I tell other parents who are new to Disney: Go in with a plan. The benefit is twofold. Weeks ahead of our trip, I involved the kids in the planning with park maps, making a list of rides we “have” to do. The anticipation is half the pleasure. The second is that I have two headstrong children who are different heights (check a ride's height requirement before making any promises). “What do you want to do next?” is guaranteed to start a riot.

We used Condé Nast Traveler Specialist Michelle Allen of Travel Magic, who was able to expertly advise us on preferential hotels, entry times, and more. She and her team held my hand throughout, and I truly would not have been able to pull off this trip without her.

Where to stay

Find more Traveler-recommended Disney World hotels and Airbnbs in Orlando.

Top tips for families

Figuring out Disney World's Lightning Lane passes is not for the faint of heart. These ticket add-ons allow you to essentially cut the line within a given time window. I had the benefit of working with a brilliant team at Travel Magic, who advised when and what to book. Once they are booked, you have a generous map of your day, especially regarding the peak attractions like the Seven Dwarfs Mine Train at Magic Kingdom. The standard wait times on these rides are daunting—if you've taken the trouble to go to Florida, I wouldn't head into the park without at least some Lightning Lane passes booked in advance.

I added one meal experience as an anchor—we had heard that dinner at Be Our Guest, inside Beast's Castle in Magic Kingdom, should not be missed. It was exciting for all of us to have a sophisticated three-course dinner inside the park. Otherwise, I kept shoving snacks and water into their mouths and held off on sugar until we saw the pineapple Dole Whip soft serve, a classic I never miss.

This article appeared in the July/August 2026 issue of Condé Nast Traveler. Subscribe to the magazine here.