I’m A Believer
Santa would be proud.
When I was a child, all I needed to guide me through the years was Christmas. As ridiculous as that sounds, it’s true.
Christmas was a beacon. It was as if simply acknowledging the spirit of Noel propelled me to a divine place that would always be there. (Hold the cringes).
It was both spiritual and narcissistic.
In my dreams, I would be the girl — I wished so badly — who would get to ride in Santa’s sleigh (how original, right?). I never truly wanted anything more than for those glorious reindeer to come and “whisk me away into the stars.” (How I undoubtedly requested it in my letters, trying to be cute).
I fancied the works. The front-row seat over the world. The secrets of the universe. A “special” gift from Santa that would become lasting magic in my life, symbolizing some wise inner power and comfort.
I would be important. I would be protected. I would be loved.
I somehow hoped and believed I would one day get the chance to experience this coveted magic that everyone talked about yet deemed unreal. I thought, “How could I not? When you want something bad enough, and you hope and pray for it, it has to work out, right?”
I wanted so intensely to prove the Scroogey naysayers wrong. Curse those stubborn, no-fun nonbelievers.
When I found out Santa didn’t exist, it was… pretty traumatic. It may not have been as dramatic for others, but ponder the astounding (really the greatest-of-all-time) deception for a minute.
You spend years of your life believing in something (faith in its truest sense) that was tied to your very identity. (“Santa’s always watching!”). Your morals, core values, hopes, excitements, and anticipations which fueled your entire year… it all gets ripped from under your feet (er… stockings).
Of course, it’s disorienting. It’s an interruption of tradition and reality.
Not only that, but you realize the people who raised you were in on the scheme. I, for one, started to question what else my parents covered up; what else remained buried under my nose and potentially exposed my utter ignorance. (Talk about paranoia).
You wonder who you can trust and what else is a hoax.
As I mention in another piece:
Your very spirit had such a connection to something that was rooted in faith… then it was halted.
Magic turned into doubt. Faith turned into skepticism and confusion.
Everything that Christmas can symbolize… home, belonging, comfort, familiarity; this dependable occurrence; a connection to your inner spirit; your dreams and wishes, your fears and expectations… kindness; this association with true magic and possibility… it all just seemingly ceased to be as authentic.
We recognize this “trauma” as a right of passage (granted, it’s humorous and meaningless for many), but I think the absurdity of it slips under the radar.
I’ve become more of a skeptic ever since I found out something I deeply believed in was a lie. I still am, after all these years.
It’s sad, because you realize that even something you can seemingly feel in your heart is worth questioning.
Overall, it wasn’t the fact that I couldn’t ride in Santa’s sleigh that disappointed me. It was the fact that I once truly believed I could, but my dreams — my “everything” — were apparently devastatingly false. I was just another number out of millions who “fell for” this magic.
In my mind, it basically set up the notion that dreams and wishes didn’t matter; that it can be quite irrelevant how bad you want something, because nothing you could do would ever give you such things.
We grow up. We acknowledge we can’t always get what we want.
Despite these hard facts, it hurts to think that a lot of what we long for somehow seems impossible; that our plans and passions are often unrealistic.
But here’s something…
We got over Santa Claus (at fairly young ages at that). We got over our fantasy sleigh rides. We moved beyond our desires (that were some of the strongest things we’ve held onto for the first 10 or so precious years of our lives), simply because Santa didn’t exist. He was never there. We had no choice but to accept reality.
How did we accept something that was so far-fetched from the truth to begin with? It’s easy. People do it every day. It’s not as difficult when millions of others believe the same as you, including friends. And the rewards of this belief system prevail.
Then it hits us. We’re forced to reconfigure our thoughts.
This experience teaches us to question what we perceive to be real; to look at the world with a mindful eye; to challenge our own beliefs and desires.
If you ask me, it’s the best lesson a kid could learn.
Disappointment almost always serves a purpose.
Contrary to all this trauma talk… I’m thankful for the myth of Santa. I’m thankful because I learned how deceit is possible. I learned what people (especially those you trust) are capable of, even if they have the best intentions.
By golly, nothing is what it seems.
This isn’t merely some laughable milestone. It’s a tradition embedded so deeply into cultures, seeping into the minds of our youth, creating memories of feelings that will stay with us for the rest of our lives.
Despite knowing it was all fake, I still feel that magic. The warmth. The hope. The excitement. The faith. The belief in something to transport you to a world of love and joy. All of it.
This grand spiel was rooted in love — the ultimate intangible force — after all. That’s actual magic.
I feel it because it doesn’t come from outside forces. Every real thing I’ve ever felt was never made possible solely from things outside of myself.
These incredible feelings… they exist from within.
“It’s a seed of mystery, charm, fantasy, reflection, enchantment, inner fire.”
In retrospect, I think we merely wanted to believe in something; to believe there was something greater than ourselves… and that the world was just.
But if we can carry on after a loss that was so misguided; so crushing; so wrong (especially at an age when we can barely understand the “facts of life”), then we can carry on from anything else that leaves us sweeping up the dusts from our dreams.
We’re practically pros now.
Whether these notions exist or not, we’ll always — inevitably — find something new to hold onto. We find something better — something real — to be grateful for.
Something that can still make us important; protected; loved.
The reality is that eventually, something is bound to lift us up. (And I don’t mean a sleigh).
I imagine it’s something dazzling, and joyful, and meaningful, and true.
If you simply believe in it.
