For most people, Disney World is a place of joy, nostalgia, and shared memories. This past week, it became something much deeper for me: a quiet triumph.
It wasn’t the rides, the food, or even the magic that made the day so significant. It was that I went alone. With a camera. On purpose. And I didn’t let Delilah stop me.
Let me explain.
Delilah is the name I gave my inner critic back in 2013, when her voice had grown so sharp, so constant, that I needed a way to confront her directly. Like the biblical Samson with his Delilah, I freely handed her control of my life.
In the beginning, she actually helped me survive. After painful experiences of rejection in high school, she urged me to hold back — to protect myself from the wounds that come from being too open, too vulnerable. But over time, her caution turned to control. She began warning me not just about others, but about myself.
When I began teaching in 2001 — a job I never sought and for which I had no formal credentials — she greeted me with a full-blown case of Impostor Syndrome. As my responsibilities grew, so did her voice.
You’re not good enough. ... You’re not really a teacher. ... You’re just faking it.
By naming her, I learned to talk back. I learned to say, Not right now, Delilah.
However, her grip on my social confidence remained fierce. She especially thrived in public spaces, whispering, Everyone is watching you, and they think you’re pathetic!
Which brings me to Epcot.
I had told myself I wanted to go — just me and my Canon 60D — to practice photography and refill my creative well. But as the date drew near, Delilah showed up, loud as ever.
You’ll look ridiculous. Who do you think you are? You’re not good enough to use this camera!
But something in me — maybe the Phoenix within that we’ll explore in a future blog post — whispered, Not today.
So I went. I got to Epcot at 9:00 a.m -- right when it opened. I even took a Photo Memory moment to mark the bravery of that decision — me, holding my camera, standing in the purpose of the day.
I reminded myself to slow down, to notice light and color and story shape. I took at least three shots of every scene that caught my eye, adjusting aperture or angle or focal length, not because I needed to prove anything to anyone else but me.
The 101-degree heat index was brutal. Sweat made my glasses slip down my nose so much that I couldn’t see through the viewfinder properly. It was hard to focus or even frame a shot. Eventually, I stopped pushing (of course Delilah reminded me I was a quitter, but I ignored her).
I returned the camera to the car and took the monorail to Magic Kingdom. I had no real reason to go except I wanted to see the castle – the epitome of the message Dreams do come true and You can become whatever you wish to be.
I walked Main Street, took an iPhone photo of the castle, and called it a day. I was home by 5:30 p.m., completely satisfied.
As I reflected on the day this is what I came to realize: most people are too busy living their own story to narrate yours. They’re not judging you — and even if they were, their judgment holds no weight unless you hand it power.
The bigger truth is: I was the one doing all the judging. I was telling myself I’m not good enough. I was comparing myself to others which robbed me of joy. I put value statements to labels. A photographer takes pictures. I muddy the waters by determining if the photos are good or not.
When I finally chose not to listen to that voice — and instead chose to go, to shoot, to eat, to ride the monorail — I cracked the hard shell of self-protection I’ve worn for decades. I embraced the possibility of transformation into someone free from the weight of expectations.
I can’t say Delilah is gone. But I am no longer willing to allow her to dictate what I do.
I took a solo trip to Disney World. I brought my big camera. I walked through the world on my own terms. And in doing so, I discovered something sacred:
I don’t have to be perfect to find joy. I am enough -- even though I’m still becoming.
I have come that they may have life, and have it to the full. — John 10:10 (NIV)
That truth alone was worth the drive.
