I have a tragic confession to make. At 29 years old, I’m finally outing myself as a card-carrying member of society’s most hated sub-group: the “Disney adult”.
You know the ones. We spend winter evenings watching The Little Mermaid and Toy Story. We’ve descended on more than one Halloween party dressed as Princess Leia or Tigger. And you can easily spot us out in the wild in Paris, dragging down the sophisticated atmosphere of the French capital with our personalised Mickey Mouse ears and giddy declarations that Disneyland really is “the happiest place on earth”.
Like any film-lover who was brought up on fairytales, I’ve always had a soft spot for Disney, whether that be the studio’s wondrous films or theme parks (I’ve visited the Paris site multiple times, though I’m yet to make it to Anaheim or Tokyo) – places that allow adults the world over to forget their impending old-age and revert to the joy of childhood. But being a millennial who writes about culture for a living, I always worried that my love for Disney would be an automatic blot on my reputation if I was found out.
You see, the Disney adult is not a popular one. It’s an umbrella term for fans of varying intensity: on one side, people like me, who consider Tangled the perfect hangover film and Big Thunder Mountain the peak of theme park thrills, and on the other, those imbued with Peter Pan-syndrome, who host themed fancy dress parties year-round and hold their (booze-free) hen party at Epcot.
Disney adult has become a byword for loser – and because this is 2025 and no hobby or preference can be politics-free, it’s also now shorthand for a very particular type of conservative, Christian American; your blonde-haired, blue-blooded Keyleigh’s and Kayleigh’s, who relocate to Orlando to make “Day in the Life at Disneyworld” TikTok videos with their hordes of perfect children.
In 2022, Rolling Stone magazine called Disney adults “the most hated group on the internet”, constantly open to abuse and ridicule for daring to spend their time and money on mythical princesses and magical mice. On social media, full-time “Disney influencers” who spend their days documenting trips to the parks and revealing insider tips and tricks – British travel vlogger Victoria (@disneyindetail) and the American friend group Plus Size Park Hoppers are some popular examples – are regularly derided.
And so it was with a profound sense of shame that I logged onto Etsy one morning to order personalised Mickey ears for my best friend and I (Tangled for me, Snow White for her), ready for a surprise trip to Paris for her 30th birthday. The shame remained as we arrived in the city and checked into our uber-cool hotel Off Paris Seine, a converted boat with an outdoor swimming pool and the kind of well-heeled clientele more into Dior than Daffy. Could I really turn up to breakfast wearing my Mickey ears and matching bubblegum pink outfit? Or was it safer to hide the incriminating evidence in my handbag until I reached the safe haven of Marne-la-Vallee Chessy station an hour later?
But as soon as I arrived at Disneyland Paris’s gilded gates – gleaming with their promise of magic and simple joys – the shame melted away. The real world faded behind me, kept safely at bay by those golden railings – and with it, any concern about seeming “uncool” or “sad”.
Even my friend Becky – a self-confessed Disney hater who’d grimaced when I announced we were spending a day at the park instead of downing white wine near Notre Dame – couldn’t resist Disney’s charms. By the time we’d scoffed our first character-shaped waffle and ridden It’s a Small World, she was grinning from ear to ear.
And therein lies Disney’s wonderful power. Hours before, we’d both been addled with all the usual stresses of modern adult life; but now, for a brief spell, we were wrapped in a warm, comforting haze of joy and escapism, surrounded by a world that is entirely wholesome, harmless and hopeful.
Why should I be ashamed? Alright, it’s an expensive hobby (I didn’t dare check my banking app for days afterwards, fearful that the bank’s logo would be replaced with “YOU’RE NEVER GOING TO GET A MORTGAGE” in big red letters), but being an adult means I can spend my time – and money – exactly as I want; exactly as makes me happy.
An adult with a Disney obsession is harming no one – and after all, there are far worse addictions to have. If Disney’s picture-perfect imaginary world brings some of us some much needed solace from the harshness of real life, then where’s the harm?
And so here we are: I’m Poppie, I’m a Disney adult, and I don’t care who knows it. I’m even going to search out some of my local fan clubs (of which, social media reveals, there are plenty in London) – places for like-minded Disney addicts to meet up, watch films and chat. What a lovely antidote to our increasingly cold and impersonal society.
As my friend put it, gently sunburnt and slightly tipsy (the wine on offer at the Ratatouille area is surprisingly affordable, as it turns out) while we were watching Disney’s evening parade: “Ok, I take it back. It really is magical, isn’t it?”
And heaven knows, we could all use a bit of magic from time to time.
The Telegraph, London
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