By Juliana Vasquez | Staff Writer
Every year, like clockwork, Thanksgiving ends and the Christmas season begins. Shortly after this holiday transition, my mom texts in our family group chat for my brother and me to send her our Christmas wish lists. If no list is sent, “Santa simply won’t know what presents we want him to bring,” my mom says.
I still believe in Santa Claus, because choosing to believe keeps a spark of childlike wonder alive. It’s a simple act of whimsy and creativity that makes the holiday season feel just a little more magical.
The rest of the season unfolds similarly, as we eagerly await the arrival of Santa Claus. Our Elf on the Shelf, Lucky, flits around the house, finding new locations to hide each day. Last year, he was stuck in the fridge for a week, the result of my dad accidentally touching him as he reached for the salsa in the back. It’s ridiculous, I know, but that’s the point.
Leaning into the absurdity of the holiday traditions is its own kind of joy. It gives us permission to be playful, to laugh at the elf being stuck like it’s the most dramatic thing that’s happened all week and to momentarily forget how grown-up we’re supposed to be.
On Christmas Eve, we watch the Santa tracker and set out a plate of cookies on our ceramic Santa plate, with a glass of milk to the right and a few carrots to the left. These tiny rituals are what paint the season with magic. They turn a benign December night into something full of anticipation and wonder. Even as we get older, these small acts keep the holiday spirit from fading into just another family gathering.
On Christmas morning, Lucky is gone, the cookies are half-eaten, the glass of milk is empty and unwrapped presents sit underneath the tree.
“Presents from us are wrapped, but Santa doesn’t use wrapping paper,” my mom says.
Every year unravels the same way, and every year my brother and I buy into the holiday spirit by believing in the unbelievable — a bearded man who resides in the North Pole and delivers presents to well-behaved children — a simple trade to continue reliving the holiday spirit.
According to Psychology Today, most children stop believing in Santa around the ages of seven or eight. Yet even once the logic of Santa falls apart, many continue to play along because the belief brings joy to themselves and those around them. In other words, the “Santa lie” isn’t really a lie at all. It’s a collective agreement to keep the creativity alive, to protect a fleeting kind of magic that adulthood tends to steal.
Real or not, Santa is an exciting tradition for families to take part in, a sparkle of joy and generosity amidst the season of giving. He adds an essence to the special time of year that promotes the holiday spirit and makes me extra excited to wake up on Christmas Day.
Jacqueline Woolley, a professor in the department of psychology at the University of Texas at Austin, said that “In the end, the whole family benefits. Children grow emotionally and cognitively, and parents get to spend a bit of their own time imagining the impossible.” I see this reflected within my own family every single year, as we prepare for Santa’s arrival, like an annual ritual, with my brother and me arguing over which cookies to leave on the plate and how to arrange them.
I’ve realized that believing in Santa isn’t about thinking a man in a red suit is squeezing down every chimney in America. It’s about choosing to let a little magic into your life, even when you’re old enough to know better. Santa becomes less of a person and more of a feeling, a symbol of generosity, excitement and unfiltered joy.
So, yes, I still believe in Santa Claus. I believe in the childlike whimsy he protects, in the traditions that almost make us cringe and in the holiday spirit that feels bigger than logic, and that, to me, is what makes us human.
