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Credit: DisneyI was born with a missing chromosome, but it wasn’t as dramatic as it sounds. Sure I needed heart surgery as an infant. I wore hearing aids and gave myself daily growth hormone shots. But those physical limitations are relatively straightforward to deal with, and have never stopped me from living the kind of life I want to live.
There’s another side to Turner syndrome too, though. A neurological one. Turner syndrome is often accompanied by Non-Verbal Learning Disorder, which means non-verbal skills, like math, fine and gross motor skills, and occasionally non-verbal social cues, are trickier to master. This has very much been the case for me, as I’ve dealt with NVLD, and has a much bigger impact on my day-to-day than the physical aspects of Turner syndrome.
By the time I was a few years old, my mom could practically quote The Little Mermaid from beginning to end, because I’d watched it so many times. It was my comfort. In elementary and middle school, I remember being particularly anxious about making friends, and wondering how other people seemed to so easily. I wasn’t shy at all, but to me making friends felt like trying to perform surgery using oven mitts. Everything felt awkward and clumsy.
Watching Disney movies on repeat was a salve. A balm after the anxiety of trying to process and navigate the world around me that felt like juggling too many pieces. Other Disney movies became my new favorites—Sleeping Beauty, The Rescuers—and to this day, in my mid-thirties, I still run regular Disneyathons of all the animated films. Now looking back, I’m able to see how some of the characters from these movies made me feel less alone. They felt like my friends, teaching me about people, and about myself.
Lilo
Lilo & Stitch came out when I was in middle school, and here’s the honest truth: It didn’t strike me particularly hard at the time. I enjoyed it, and it’s one of those that I like more and more with each rewatch. But it’s the response people have had to Lilo that has been most enlightening to me.
Since Lilo & Stitch came out in 2002, there’s been a lot of discussion about Lilo as an autistic coded character, and neurodivergent icon. It took other people pointing this out for me to realize that Lilo was different in specific, unique ways, because to me, she just felt normal and recognizable. Of course she had to get the right sandwich for her fish. Of course she loves her weird, misshapen doll. Of course it’s tricky to fit into the group. Of course she’s obsessed with a certain singer and just wants to listen to him over and over and over again. When other people pointed out what some of her behaviors could possibly mean, that’s when I thought, “Oh. So that’s not how everybody’s brain works?” But it didn’t matter. In her story, all Lilo had to be was Lilo.
Belle
For me, Belle was aspirational, as opposed to relatable. Her beauty, her courage, her grace. That dress! I’m definitely not graceful, and would not look the same in the yellow dress as she does. She was an example of how I wanted to move through the world.
Most remarkably, in the end, Belle doesn’t have to change to succeed. An extended introduction song focuses on how different she is, and she walks through that whole number not noticing or caring. She refuses to conform for Gaston, and later finds her courage and stands up for herself to the Beast, which teaches them both some important things. Belle refuses to back down or falter from her belief even when confronted by an actual pitchfork-and-torch-wielding mob. She sticks to her convictions and to herself. And in the end, she finds someone who gets her.
Timothy Q. Mouse and Dumbo
I don’t think it’s only neurodivergent people who can relate to Dumbo. Don’t we all have our version of jumbo ears? Something we’re embarrassed about, whether external or internal? But as a neurodivergent viewer, I’ve always loved Dumbo.
Dumbo’s “weakness,” the thing he’s mocked for, and what marks him as “other,” ends up being one of his biggest strengths. Now, I want to avoid the disability-as-superpower trope, because that’s not the reality. Disability is tough. However, like Dumbo looking down from the clouds, disability and neurodivergence give us a totally unique and unconventional perspective, which is a strength and asset.
It’s OK to treat the neurodivergent experience that way, which is where Timothy Q. Mouse comes in. That little guy in the red coat and hat is the perfect example of how I want to behave toward both myself and others. Am I feeling bullied? Picked on? Alone? Hey, it’s OK, come on over here and have a little snack. Anyone else feeling that way too? There are enough peanuts for everyone. It’s amazing how big of a help a little friend in your corner can be.
I recently spent many weeks of anxiety and a solid chunk of my savings relocating myself from the Midwest to the Orlando area. People I said goodbye to, friends on social media, they all wanted to know why. Was it for work? As a writer, I can work remotely from wherever I choose. I tried to provide logical, adult-sounding answers: I’ve got friends in Tampa and Tallahassee, and the taxes in Florida are good for freelancers.
But the real answer is that it’s been a lifelong dream of mine to have an annual pass to one of the Disney Parks. I don’t know if this is my particular neurodivergence or not, but there’s something soothing about the thrum and hubbub of the Park crowd. It feels like a social weighted blanket: I don’t have to directly interact with a ton of people, but the ones I do cross paths with are usually smiling and wearing Mickey Mouse ears.