Universal Studios and the Permission to Play

There is a particular kind of joy that only exists inside curated worlds.

Not the fragile joy of productivity. Not the earned joy that comes after suffering. I mean the loud, unapologetic joy of walking into a place designed entirely for wonder and saying, Yes. I will have some of that.

Universal Studios was my birthday gift to myself. A day of color and noise and spectacle after days steeped in stone, history, and ghosts. Ancient forts and quiet museums had given me weight. Universal gave me motion.

And I needed both.

There’s something fascinating about moving from a city like St. Augustine, where history presses close and heavy, into a theme park where fantasy is openly artificial and proudly indulgent. One place asks you to remember. The other asks you to imagine.

Escapism gets a bad reputation. As if stepping into a fantasy world means you’re running away from reality rather than resting from it. But escapism, when chosen consciously, isn’t avoidance. It’s care.

It’s saying: I am allowed to enjoy things.

Diagon Alley was alive in a way that made me pause. Not because it was perfect, but because it was full. People laughing. Pointing. Gasps when the dragon breathed fire. Parents watching their kids with that soft, misty look that says, I loved this once too.

Knockturn Alley, darker and narrower, felt like a deliberate contrast. Shadows clinging to brick walls. Twists and turns that invite curiosity rather than comfort. I lingered there longer than expected, appreciating how even the spooky parts were crafted with intention.

And yes, this is where I want to be clear.

I am aware that many people have chosen to step away from Harry Potter because of J.K. Rowling’s words and actions. I do not condone or stand by them. That matters. Representation, respect, and care for real people matter more than fictional worlds.

And still.

Standing there, watching people from all over the world light up with recognition and delight, I couldn’t ignore another truth. As an author, this is the dream. To create a world so vivid, so emotionally resonant, that it becomes bigger than its origin. Bigger than a single moment. Bigger, even, than its creator.

That kind of connection doesn’t happen by accident.

It happens because stories matter. Because characters become companions. Because worlds give people a place to belong, even temporarily. Especially temporarily.

Universal isn’t pretending to be history. Hollywood and New York sections lean into architectural nostalgia without claiming authenticity. They’re impressions. Love letters. Carefully constructed illusions that don’t ask to be mistaken for the real thing.

And that honesty is part of the relief.

After days of interrogating who gets remembered, who gets erased, and how power shapes narrative, Universal gave me permission to simply enjoy. To play. To move through spaces that exist solely to delight without carrying the weight of interpretation on my back.

I laughed. I wandered. I took too many photos of brickwork and alleyways like the nerd I am. I let myself be fully present in a place that didn’t require depth to justify its existence.

Escapism didn’t diminish the rest of my trip. It balanced it.

Because wonder and reckoning are not opposites. They’re companions. One keeps the other from becoming unbearable.

And on my birthday, of all days, I chose joy without justification.

That, too, is care.

Until next time,

Indigo