The Year the Magic Looked Different.
I never imagined Santa Claus would be the thing to break me open like this. Yet here I am tonight, sitting with this heavy, quiet ache in my chest, realizing my child has reached that age—the age where the world starts whispering, where playground conversations shift, where wonder begins to bend under the weight of growing up.
And I’m struggling in ways I didn’t expect.
I knew this day would come eventually, but knowing doesn’t soften the sting. It feels like I’m standing at the edge of two worlds—the one where magic is effortless and the one where truth slowly takes its place. And watching my child stretch toward that truth… it hurts in a way I wasn’t prepared for.
There’s a particular kind of heartbreak in seeing the sparkle of belief dim just a little. It’s not just about Santa. It’s about childhood—the fleeting, irreplaceable pieces of it that disappear so quietly you almost miss the moment they slip away. The breathless excitement on Christmas Eve. The way their eyes widened at the sound of bells. The way they believed without needing proof, without hesitation, without fear.
Those moments were pure magic. And feeling them begin to fade—feeling that chapter close—cuts deeper than I thought it would.
Part of me wants to hold on with both hands, to protect the innocence, to keep the story alive just a little longer. But another part of me knows this moment matters. It’s not just about revealing the truth—it’s about guiding them through it with love, gentleness, and grace. It’s about teaching them that magic doesn’t disappear just because they understand it differently. Sometimes magic grows with us.
I want them to know that Santa was never about a man in a red suit. He was about love. About joy. About giving without expecting anything in return. He was about the way we make the world softer and brighter for each other. And now, they get to step into that role—to create magic, not just believe in it.
But even with that beautiful perspective, my heart still aches. This is one of those quiet parenting heartbreaks no one warns you about. The kind that sneaks up and knocks the wind out of you. You spend their whole childhood preparing them for the world, and then one small question—Is Santa real?—shows you just how quickly time is moving.
As I sit here tonight, trying to find the right words, I’m reminding myself that the real magic was never in the story. It was in the moments. The memories. The way their laughter filled the house when they saw half-eaten carrots on the porch. The way their joy lit up everything around them.
That magic doesn’t go away. It just changes shape.
And maybe… maybe that’s okay. Maybe growing up doesn’t mean losing the magic—it means learning to carry it differently.
Maybe that’s enough.