✨disney✨ is my culture and that’s kind of horrifying
I’ve been watching movies like Coco and Encanto, and I started wondering something that hit harder than I expected:
Why do I — as a white woman in America — feel like I have no real culture?
No traditions. No sacred rhythms passed down. I don’t even know anyone past my great- great-grandmother, and I barely know anything about her. There’s no lineage in my hands. Just a vague sense of being American, and that’s… nothing. That’s Walmart and McDonald’s points and $900 a pill and losing my Medicaid while the president builds a ballroom.
Then I look at these Disney movies — filled with grief rituals, family altars, magical houses tied to memory, and I ache. Because I never got that. And it makes me realize:
Disney has been the only consistent thing speaking emotional truths to me my whole life.
And also?
It’s a megacorporation.
Built to keep me consuming.
It teaches me to cry, to believe in something bigger, to love my family;
but also to buy.
To keep scrolling.
To go to Disney World and call it a core family pilgrimage.
And lately I’ve been playing Dreamlight Valley, and my boyfriend was playing Kingdom Hearts, and I wanted to re-download Toontown of all things — because those are the only spaces that ever felt like magic.
Not family dinners.
Not church pews.
Not old stories told around a fire.
Just… digital Disney.
Fantasy as inheritance.
A carefully designed nostalgia machine as my mythological anchor.
I guess what I’m saying is:
I’m 32 and grieving the culture I never had.
And Disney, weirdly enough, is the closest thing I’ve ever had to a tradition.
Which is both beautiful… and terrifying.














