This as-told-to narrative draws upon an in-depth conversation with Lee Wan Yu, a thirty-year-old artist whose professional journey evolved from being a parade dancer at Hong Kong Disneyland to becoming a freelance dance instructor, choreographer, and performing artist. The account below has been carefully edited for coherence, conciseness, and readability, while fully preserving the authenticity of her voice and reflections.
My lifelong relationship with dance began extraordinarily early—at the tender age of three—when, during an ordinary walk with my mother, I became entranced by a ballet studio we passed. Its mirrored walls and delicate music sparked something profound in me, and I pleaded with her for lessons. That single, impulsive request opened the doorway to what would become a consuming passion and a defining vocation. From that moment onward, dance was not merely an extracurricular activity but a way of life, a lens through which I understood expression and emotion.
What I could never have foreseen was that this passion would one day lead me, an inherently introverted individual, to one of the most extroverted and dazzling stages imaginable: Hong Kong Disneyland. The opportunity emerged unexpectedly in 2017, while I was studying for my diploma in dance at the Nanyang Academy of Fine Arts in Singapore. At the time, the Hong Kong Disneyland entertainment team announced open auditions to be held on our campus. Out of curiosity rather than ambition, I decided to accompany a friend who had been reluctant to attend alone. My expectations were essentially nonexistent; my sole intention was to observe how a professional audition unfolded and to gain insight into that atmosphere.
Around fifty dancers from various countries across the region assembled that day, each bringing with them their own training backgrounds and artistic aspirations. The audition itself was both exhilarating and rigorous. We were taught a sharply stylized jazz choreography—energetic, precise, and demanding in its technicality—and then required to perform it repeatedly in progressively smaller groups. With each round, the panel made cuts, narrowing the pool to roughly twenty of us. They subsequently took detailed photographs, measured our heights and body proportions, and meticulously recorded this information. After that intense experience, I returned to my academic routine, assuming that would be the end of it.
Several months later, however, while pursuing a fine arts degree at the prestigious Purchase Conservatory of Dance in New York, I received a message that would alter my path. Hong Kong Disneyland had extended to me a one-year contract as a parade dancer. Without hesitation, I accepted, eager to merge artistry with theatrical spectacle on a grand scale.
Arriving in Hong Kong in May 2018, I discovered that I was the only Singaporean performer in the entire parade team at that time. Our cohort was wonderfully diverse, comprising dancers from Hong Kong, Japan, the Philippines, Russia, Taiwan, and Thailand. This multicultural environment fostered both exchange and respect—a celebration of artistry across borders.
A typical workday was physically demanding yet electrifying. Our mornings began around 11 a.m. with a full warm-up session to prepare our bodies for the long hours ahead. Thereafter came the elaborate process of donning makeup, costumes, and occasionally intricate accessories designed to uphold the park’s fantastical aesthetics. We usually performed two parades per day—one bright and lively under the afternoon sun and another glittering with lights at night—each lasting roughly thirty minutes. During high seasons, such as Christmas, the schedule could intensify to as many as four parades daily. Each performance included what was known as a “show stop,” a brief interlude in front of the iconic castle during which performers interacted directly with guests through choreographed gestures, smiles, and spirited improvisation.
Rehearsals, particularly for seasonal attractions like the Halloween parades, pushed the boundaries of endurance. Because they often took place after the park closed, our sessions sometimes extended past midnight and concluded around two o’clock in the morning. The physical conditions added another layer of challenge: Hong Kong’s subtropical heat was relentless, and many costumes for the night parades incorporated lighting elements and small battery packs, whose combined weight pressed against our shoulders and backs. Despite these obstacles, once we stepped into costume, fatigue or homesickness had to melt away—the audience demanded, and deserved, our full energy and sincerity.
Stepping into Disneyland truly felt like crossing an invisible threshold into another dimension—one meticulously designed to suspend everyday concerns and replace them with joy, wonder, and nostalgia. The park’s philosophy of creating a seamless illusion meant that every performer, technician, and staff member contributed to maintaining an atmosphere untouched by the mundane realities outside. Guests, for example, would never see dancers stretching or working out during breaks because the company wanted to preserve what it called “the magic.” Similarly, photography or videography in backstage areas was strictly prohibited to ensure that this boundary between fantasy and production remained intact.
That sense of enchantment was not one-sided. Many visitors arrived repeatedly to share in the very feeling we created. Some adult fans attended every parade, photographing the performers along the route, while children waved from the sidewalks with infectious enthusiasm. I still remember a teenage boy who appeared nearly every weekend, dancing joyfully along the parade’s edge from start to finish. Over time, some guests even recognized us beyond the park gates, greeting us as familiar faces in an imaginary world they loved. A few offered printed photos they had taken, small tokens that reminded me of how deeply these fleeting moments could touch others.
Yet what truly distinguished my experience was the collective respect and professionalism that permeated the entire Disneyland operation. Everyone—from dancers and stage managers to costume designers, lighting engineers, and sound technicians—understood the importance of mutual consideration. Even when exhaustion set in, kindness prevailed. That ethos of empathy shaped my understanding of teamwork and leadership more profoundly than any formal training could. I learned that my attitude toward others—whether peer performers or members of supporting departments—had a direct influence on the harmony, efficiency, and spirit of the production.
Disney also prioritized its performers’ well-being with remarkable seriousness. Safety procedures were thorough, and the company offered solid medical insurance, a practical necessity given the physical strain inherent in dance. These measures reaffirmed that we were valued not only as entertainers but also as professionals whose bodies and health sustained the artistry on which the park’s magic depended. When my one-year contract concluded, I chose not to renew. Instead, I felt compelled to return home and explore new directions, eager to transfer what I had learned into broader creative contexts.
Today, back in Singapore, I work as a freelance dancer, educator, and choreographer. My daily mission is to recreate, within the studio, that same spirit of magic that defines Disneyland—not through spectacle or costume, but through inspiration and joy. Dance education, particularly for younger students, can be intensely stressful, especially when examinations and competitions loom. My goal is to cultivate an environment that balances discipline with delight, where students feel both supported and eager to express themselves. To me, magic occurs in those small yet transformative moments when a child’s movement suddenly blossoms into confidence, or when a student overcomes self-doubt and experiences pride in achievement.
The same principle guides my creative practice as a choreographer. In my work, I integrate that ethos of wonder into every artistic decision. Interestingly, I have begun to incorporate technology—particularly artificial intelligence tools—into the more logistical aspects of my creative process. For instance, writing summaries or conceptual outlines for school performances can be daunting, as dancers often think in visuals and motion rather than words. Using platforms like ChatGPT assists me in structuring my ideas more coherently, not to outsource creativity but to clarify my own thoughts and articulate them in a more organized form. On larger-scale productions, I’m increasingly open to experimenting with specialized AI software that can map out stage formations, calculate spatial relationships, and visualize movements—functions that could dramatically simplify complex planning.
This technological support has practical significance. Over the past two years, I had the honor of choreographing segments for Singapore’s National Day Parade, at times overseeing up to six hundred student performers. Coordinating such massive numbers required meticulous attention: I spent countless nights moves pieces around on spreadsheets, balancing symmetry and rhythm until the early hours of morning. If AI could assist in streamlining those procedures—helping me test arrangements instantaneously—it would save tremendous amounts of time and energy.
Nonetheless, I firmly believe that the heart of performance, the animating source of beauty and emotion, must always come from human beings. Technology can refine logistics, illuminate possibilities, and enhance precision, but it cannot substitute for the expressive essence born of human empathy and imagination. That, ultimately, is how the true magic happens—through people channeling authenticity, care, and creative passion into every gesture, whether on a grand parade route or inside a modest dance studio.
Sourse: https://www.businessinsider.com/disneyland-parade-dancer-life-career-lessons-tips-magic-audition-teamwork-2025-12
