Begrudgingly Enchanted
When I worked at Disneyland, I mercilessly mocked people who visited without children. I swore I would never be a “Disney Adult.” So imagine my horror when I learned that my partner adored Disney. When he was a child, a birth defect led to complicated surgeries and, eventually, an amputation on his left leg. Every summer, at the Children’s Hospital of Orange County, he would bear excruciating pain while, only minutes away, other children rode Space Mountain and gorged on churros. As a grown-up, Disneyworld is his happy place. Over the years, I’ve begrudgingly allowed it to become mine, too. — Debby Dodds
Life After Jake
When people find out our son Jake died when he was 4, they often say, “I can’t imagine the pain.” I wouldn’t have been able to, either. My husband and I waded through the terrible and murky territory of child loss together. It took time, and we weren’t always in sync, but we discovered that great joy can exist after great pain. Jake keeps us bonded, reminding us that life is for the living. — Heather Straughter
Coming Late, Leaving Early
I got to the party late; everyone was a few drinks in. The music was too loud. The married man hugged me for too long. Three years into not drinking, I felt as sober as could be. A woman asked loudly how my dying mother was doing. I yelled back: “Bad!” I grabbed my husband’s hand, made a face. We left the party early. At home, I picked up a novel and crawled into bed. Three hours later, I stood up, astonished at how words on a page could make me fall in love with the world again. — Kathleen Donahoe
A New Lens
As a woman who once was a girl with an eating disorder, I didn’t expect to fall in love with a photographer. “I’m not that photogenic,” I told him. “That’s because you haven’t seen yourself through my lens,” he replied. I worried that his lens would look like mine. On our fifth date, he photographed me on a blanket in the park at dusk. Later, he sent the photo. I didn’t see the distortion of imperfections. I saw beauty. I focused on the fading light and the brightness of my smile — the happiness of finally feeling safe to be seen. — Allison Grinberg-Funes
