It’s my first day of training at Disney World Orlando, and I am learning how to be Pooh, a big yellow bear who is constantly reminded by guests that he’s not wearing pants. I’ve almost perfected the walk, but these boxy feet are giving me shin splints.

Soon I’ve successfully mastered talking, signing and acting like every character in my height range. If I can prove myself as a fur performer, they’ll upgrade me to a face character, transitioning me from cartoon animal costumes to talking human icons. I have my fingers crossed, because it’s autumn, and despite the cool breeze coming in through my mouth, sticky sweat is pouring out of everywhere else. It’s so hot that the pregnant Donald Duck standing across from me just passed out, and I am not far behind. Welcome to the most magical place on Earth!

Though I grew up on Disney films, I never imagined myself working for the Mouse. When I was 7, my grandmother made me chop my hair into a bowl cut before she would take me to Disney World. I spent the entire day crying and now I can’t clearly recall a single thing that happened while we were there.

When I was 13, my grandparents enrolled me in vocal lessons with a woman I would later consider a second mother. During our 12 years together, her daughter became a professional singer and started working at Disney as a stage performer before moving on to Broadway and producing her own albums. When it was suggested that I follow in her footsteps, I leapt at the opportunity to move away from home.

A few weeks after my 20th birthday, I sat in an audition hall alongside hundreds of other hopefuls. I was so nervous that I bombed my performance, but I was encouraged to apply as a face character and to return for stage roles when I was ready. I came back eager for a second chance and spent the day getting measured, learning parade dances, showcasing my miming abilities, and delivering the film lines of characters I resembled. While my dance skills weren’t remarkable, I did land the roles of Belle from Beauty and the Beast and Fawn, a fairy from the beloved Tinker Bell franchise, thereby securing myself a ticket to unforgettable experiences.

I quickly discover that at Disney World, pixie dust is real, except some Tinkerbells take it up the nose instead of sprinkling it on little kids, and one of the guys who plays Prince Charming is rumoured to be on a quest to sleep with a girl from every continent. Thanks to Epcot, he’s more than halfway there. I doubt Walt ever envisioned his creation turning into a buffet for brash men. Meanwhile, the Princess dressing room is abuzz with a rumour that a guy who plays one of the park’s most infamous pirates is giving out golden showers without consent on his days off. I also heard that an employee got fired for getting caught in the bathroom with Mickey’s glove. I shudder to think of how many thousands of germ-ridden hands touched it before it got up close and personal with her mini mouse.

During my first few months working at Disney, I thrive on fast-food meals, a fake celebrity status and late-night outings. I’m staying in a bougie townhouse just outside of Celebration, Florida (a suburb of Orlando that was originally created by the Walt Disney Company), with two other employees for $350 a month each. I move through several parks each week, so the break rooms are always filled with new faces. For now, my closest friends are the photographers and cast assistants who accompany me.

When winter arrives, I finally step into the role of a face character. I discover how to apply fake lashes, glitter and custom wigs. I’m told that my head is two inches smaller than average, that I need Mellow Yellow to cover my hickey, and that tanning is no longer an option. The Cinderella beside me is reprimanded for gaining weight and Ariel is with management to discuss ageing out.

On my first day as Belle, I feel like a yellow cake topper trapped in a 40-pound ballgown that, despite being laundered hundreds of times, still smells like musk. As the doors to the Princess Room open, my fellow castmates and I are greeted with literal “oohs” and “ahhs.” I wasn’t prepared to do a thousand squats today, nor was I ready for the oblivious mother who plops her baby onto my lap despite the full diaper leaking brown sludge from the sides, who then insists on taking photo after photo. And I am certainly not ready for the father who leans in and asks if I’m into bestiality.

The Underground is a network of tunnels that serves as a shortcut to anywhere in the park. Performers use it prevent guests from seeing duplicate characters roaming the parks, which would most certainly destroy the illusion that the company is working so hard to keep intact. Because of the sour-smelling sewage running through the pipes overhead, I’m forced to play a perennial game of “dodge the drips”. Disney also offers a cafeteria with various chain restaurants, an onsite gas station, firehouse and medical clinic.

To help preserve the magic of Disney, it is said no one has ever been declared dead on park property, but I’ve heard several people have been decapitated. Tell me how that one works. It’s difficult to know what’s real and what’s not in a world of make believe but I’ve heard plenty more gruesome things have happened in the park. I was told a Tigger was literally run over during a parade and someone else claimed that a Lion King monkey snapped his neck attempting a forward roll in rehearsal. There’s a rumour that Space Mountain has claimed more than its fair share of riders. I don’t know if that’s true, but Splash Mountain was once shut down because a guest thought it would be a good idea to hop out of his boat in the middle of the ride. Long story short: the logs kept moving and the unsuspecting man was crushed as he tried to cross the human-made river.

By spring, I’ve been moved to the sunrise shift. This means that I’m part of the backstage tours, a chance for guests who have paid an obscene amount of money to become disenchanted. They pass by my dressing room, and I’ve never felt more like a zoo animal. No one asks me questions — maybe they’ve been told not to interact with us — and instead I hear:

“Look at her wig!”

“I had no idea she looked like that in real life.”

“Take a picture of those shoes. Oh, right, no cameras allowed. Sorry.”

“Wow, how much do you think those dresses cost to make?”

“Someone needs some coffee.”

For the next year and a half, the luster continues to fade. I wake up, drag myself out of bed, park in the cast lot, ride the bus behind the gates, run down the tunnel, clock in late, get another warning, grab my costume, do my makeup, walk to my assigned area, listen to hype music while awaiting start time, then walk onto set feeling like a baddie.

Smile. Squat down for kids. Pictures. Squat. Squat. Squat. Smile. See 200 guests per set. Clear the room. Sigh as all smiles flatline. Walk off set. Change into break-room attire. Watch Disney films on the couch. Eat Subway. Nap. Fix makeup. Redress. Repeat four times, with each interval lasting 45 to 85 minutes.

I am allowed to go into the parks during my breaks to watch parades, get ice cream, ride coasters, or shop the gift stores, but I never feel the desire to abandon my bubble, not even when auditions for Disney Tokyo and Paris are announced. This is a job, after all. When work is done, I leave, pick up hibachi, and look forward to being home in my pyjamas.

Still, I make lifelong friends, and we take Disney cruises together, and dance our way through confetti and vodka in Florida clubs where our glitter-covered faces seem right at home.

One day at the end of my second year, I’m playing Fawn, a rough-and-tumble tomboy fairy who can talk to animals. I climb plastic trees that overlook painted sunsets until I reach popcorn ceilings, which seem to stare back at me and say, “Grow up.” But here, in Neverland, I don’t have to.

We have a meet-and-greet with a Make-A-Wish child within the first hour. After being dressed up by Fairy Godmothers, she’s wheeled in, and we surround her with gentle coos. They shut off the timer hidden in the upper right-hand corner of the room. It usually serves as a strict guest counter to make sure we hit our numbers. For now, however, it’s dark.

We take our time asking her questions about her interests and dreams. We compliment her sparkling shoes and the Mickey ears perched atop her radiation scars until it’s time to say goodbye. She’s on her way to the real Neverland, so we huddle together as our wings tremble with the emotions we’ve been holding back.

We typically meet with over 1,000 people per day. We are not told to hug children for as long as they want because we have a line to get through and quotas to meet. So we cherish moments like this, when time slows down and we are reminded of why we are here. It is our duty and honor to bring magic into the lives of both children and adults.

Some days, it is easy to shrug off or make light of this mission. On other days, an encounter with someone like this little girl settles like wet concrete in my gut and I have a hard time recovering from how unfair life feels. Unfortunately, I have to get back to work, and our customers don’t want to see a devastated fairy.

I can’t see any way to rise up the ranks at Disney World unless I moved into management, which I don’t want to do. Every day I feel more trapped beneath the wigs and pinned down by the costumes. The feeling that I’m suffocating behind the grinning masks is more constant. My panic attacks become too frequent and difficult to control, but I don’t want to take the anxiety medication I’m offered. I realise it’s time for me to move on.

On my last day, Peter Pan is a special guest in our Pixie Hollow. No one knows that Peter is my favourite representation of dreams, imagination and eternal possibilities. As the room closes and the secret set walls open to return us to human life, I pause because I realise what these last few steps mean. As if it has all suddenly become real, Peter reaches out his hand to me.

“All it takes is faith and trust,” he says, as we skip out one last time. I almost believe him.

Disney’s economy has rarely suffered because there will always be people who seek safety in nostalgia. Visitors can interact with — or even become — the characters they admire, remember what it feels like to believe in happy endings, and live vicariously through the joy of their children.

I worked at Disney for three years, and I didn’t learn a thing about myself. Disney is like high school. It solidified my identity through cliques, but did not expand it. Being a character is not all it’s cracked up to be, and making magic is not the same as experiencing it.

These days, I see Disney as a glittering pink castle placed atop a stagnant Florida marsh. You can dress it up all you want, but at the end of the day, it’s still hot, crowded and overrated. The fantasy only works when it’s carefully maintained, and someone always has to be backstage or sweating inside a costume to hold the illusion together.

If you are headed there tomorrow, go. Let yourself believe in magic. Take pictures, cry at the fireworks, hold your child’s hand a little longer than you normally might. Don’t listen to me — I never loved Disney to begin with, so I couldn’t fall out of love with it when I left.

I still enjoy watching my husband, who is new to the “wonderful world of Disney,” explore the parks. I still find myself talking like Belle when I’m on a professional call, and Fawn will always be a part of me. I watch most of the Disney films, because, as intended, they bring me comfort and inspiration.

Knowing what I know now has not ruined Disney for me. I see it as I always did: a theme park designed for entertainment and escapism. I am disappointed that I didn’t find anything magical while I worked there, but I guess that’s the point: There is no real magic behind the curtain, only what we create in front of it.

Michalla Brianna is an author, CEO/founder of Barrie Patch Books & The Healing Arts LLC, as well as an executive producer, podcast host, clinical counsellor, and expressive arts therapist. She holds five university degrees in creative writing and psychology. This essay is part of a memoir told in vignettes.

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