Tomorrow morning, we begin our Disney adventure. For the next five days, our family gets to step away from our normal rhythm and enter a place that exists almost entirely around imagination, nostalgia, and creating memories. We’ll be staying at the resort, walking through the parks, seeing the lights, eating ridiculous treats, wearing Mickey ears, and embracing the entire wonderfully absurd experience that is Disney. There is something uniquely strange and beautiful about a place where millions of adults willingly spend money to stand in long lines because somewhere at the end is a character from their childhood or a moment they want their child to experience. It’s completely ridiculous, and somehow completely magical.
As I think about tomorrow, though, I notice something familiar happening. The committee has already arrived. The committee, of course, is the collection of voices in my head that has accompanied me through this entire strange journey of being Z. The planners, the worriers, the analysts, and the observers. The parts of me that want to understand the variables, anticipate challenges, and create some level of certainty in a world that refuses to provide it. What time are we leaving? What time should we arrive? How crowded will it be? Will the noise and constant movement become overwhelming? Will everyone have a good time? Will we get to everything we want to experience? The committee loves situations with unknown variables, and Disney is basically a five-day experiment in uncertainty.
The funny thing about the committee is that I have spent a lot of my life viewing it as something I needed to overcome. The anxious voice. The overthinking. The endless analysis. The part of my mind that wants to prepare for every possible outcome before allowing myself to fully experience what is happening. But the older I get, the more I realize the committee was never really my enemy. It has protected me. It has helped me navigate uncertainty. It has helped me think deeply, create, adapt, and survive moments when life felt chaotic. The committee has been a companion. The challenge has never been getting rid of it. The challenge has been learning when to listen and when to let go.
And this trip feels like a perfect example of that.
Because maybe the committee has a different role this week.
Maybe it isn’t here to warn me about what could go wrong. Maybe it is here to remind me of what is happening right now.
These are the moments we spend so much of our lives trying to create. We work, we plan, we save, we dream, and we tell ourselves that someday we will have the time to slow down and enjoy life. Then suddenly the moment arrives, and our minds immediately start trying to manage it. We start thinking about the next thing, the next responsibility, the next opportunity to optimize the experience.
But the strange truth about memories is that they are created in the moments we actually inhabit. They are not created by perfectly executing a schedule. They are not created by capturing the perfect photograph. They are created when we are fully there.
So yes, I’m going to take pictures. A lot of pictures. I’m going to capture the moments because I love having those reminders of the life we have built. I’m going to buy the snacks that are probably overpriced but somehow taste better because they are shaped like a mouse. I’m going to wear Mickey ears. I’m going to embrace all of the ridiculousness and wonder that comes with stepping into a world built around imagination.
But I also want to remember to stay a little longer.
I want to do the extra activity even if my brain says we should conserve energy. I want to stay up later and experience the resort after dark. I want to say yes when the easier answer is no. I want to notice the little moments that won’t make the highlight reel but will probably become the memories that matter most.
The way my daughter looks at something with complete amazement. The way my wife and I look at each other during a quiet moment in the middle of the chaos. The tired feet at the end of a long day. The laughter. The small conversations. The moments where nothing extraordinary is happening except that we are together.
The committee has spent a lot of years helping me prepare for life. Maybe this week it gets to help me experience life.
Maybe it gets to tap me on the shoulder and say, “Hey. Stop analyzing this moment. You are inside the thing you’ve been waiting for.”
And maybe that is the real lesson. Presence does not mean silencing the voices. It does not mean eliminating the parts of ourselves that worry, plan, or question. It means allowing all of those parts to exist together without letting any one of them take over.
The planner. The worrier. The philosopher. The father. The husband. The child who still gets excited about magic. All of them get to come to Disney. All of them get to stand there together, looking at the lights, eating something absurd, wearing something even more absurd, and recognizing something simple.