“Don’t come up to the attic—I’m wrapping your Christmas presents!” I called out last December, my voice lifted through the rafters as I waited for a reply from my youngest child. She had just turned eleven, that graceful yet uncertain age when the border between innocent belief and practical understanding begins to blur. Deep within me, I knew that the moment I had been dreading for years had quietly arrived—she no longer believed in Santa Claus.
From downstairs, her casual voice floated back up. “Mom! Don’t forget—I want Monopoly this year.”
Her request, so ordinary and sincere, pierced through me like an unexpected chill. I closed my eyes tightly, pressing back the heat of sudden tears. In our household, Santa had always been the sole arbiter of holiday generosity—the unseen hand behind every bow and ribbon, every toy gleaming beneath the tree. Yet, for me, he represented something even greater. Santa was a shimmering conduit to my childhood Christmases, to the vibrant Italian Catholic traditions of my upbringing, now layered lovingly over the Jewish rituals of the family I was raising with my husband.
Even though my children studied Hebrew, attended synagogue, and had each marked their own bar or bat mitzvah, I had insisted that they also share in the Christmas celebrations of my family. To me, the two identities—Jewish and Italian Catholic—were not contradictory but complementary, threads of belonging woven together through love. And at the heart of that blend of faiths, Santa had been the bridge, that universal symbol of generosity and wonder who made December shimmer with possibility.
But standing there, listening to my daughter’s easy practicality, I understood what she had silently confessed: in her world, St. Nicholas had stopped existing. The myth had dissolved, leaving me to contemplate how our family might preserve the enchantment that once came so naturally. If Santa’s magic had faded, how could I still keep the spirit of my Christmas alive?
My chest felt heavy with an unfamiliar ache—part nostalgia, part mourning. Rationally, I told myself that the holidays would be simpler now. There would be no elaborate pretenses, no stealthy wrapping sessions, no midnight sleigh tracks etched across our snow-dusted lawn. And yet, despite that simplicity, a quiet sorrow pressed against my heart. Turning fifty that same month only deepened my melancholy—the awareness that both my children and I were moving through different seasons of life, each leaving behind a version of ourselves that no longer existed.
Part of the reason I’d clung so fiercely to Santa’s legend was that it mirrored the joy of my own childhood—those bright Christmas mornings when I would wake to find glittering gifts that seemed almost supernatural in their appearance. I still remember the year I turned eight, when I discovered a shiny tape recorder and a real microphone beneath the tree. That moment had been pure wonder, a symbol of possibility. In watching my own children tear open their gifts with equal delight, I relived that memory again and again, as if their smiles could rejuvenate the magic of my youth.
But now, without Santa’s imagined presence hovering in the background, the act of wrapping presents felt hollow, mechanical. I stared at the growing pile of boxes and ribbons as though they were simply objects, stripped of their sparkle. I longed, somewhat absurdly, for a “Back to the Future” moment—just a single day to step backward into the unfiltered joy of being eight again, when magic was unquestioned.
Instead, real life reminded me of its inevitabilities. The night sweats, the soft sag of features unfamiliar to me in the mirror—all whispering questions that no one can answer: Am I closer to the place I’m headed than to the one I came from? When I’m gone, will my children find ways to embody the same generosity and spirit that Santa once represented in our home? I’ll admit, even inside my own mind, it all felt rather dramatic, but emotion rarely obeys logic.
As early December rolled in, I found myself craving something that might revive the sparkle of holidays past. One evening, I pulled out an old photo album, leafing through faded snapshots from my youth. There I was—grinning at eight years old, clutching that beloved recorder and microphone that once made me feel like a superstar. As I stared at it, a word surfaced in my mind like a whispered incantation: “karaoke.” Instantly, I imagined the gleam of a spotlight, the laughter of family gathered around, and my hands instinctively fluttered into jazz hands.
Weeks later, when my milestone birthday arrived, I celebrated it surrounded by friends at Baby Grand, a cozy karaoke bar in New York City. The pulse of the music, the hum of voices blending together—it all felt alive, electric. Caught in that euphoria, I impulsively ordered a karaoke machine to be delivered to my home as a late-night birthday indulgence. As I planned my annual Christmas Eve gathering, a thought struck me: what if singing could fill the space that Santa’s absence had left? Perhaps this new tradition could bring a different, yet equally joyful form of magic.
Inviting my extended family, I teased them affectionately: “I’m serving seven fishes—but don’t worry, no gefilte!” It would be my Italian festa, shared for the first time with my Jewish relatives—a blending of customs that perfectly reflected who we were. A part of me fretted, though; would my cousins recoil at this spontaneous transformation of our Christmas celebration into something resembling a Broadway revue? More importantly, would my children—then between eleven and nineteen—roll their eyes and retreat from the spotlight in embarrassed silence?
That night, the living room became our stage. With a deep breath and a playful toss of my hair worthy of Janis Joplin herself, I belted out the opening line to one of my favorite songs, my heart pounding in rhythm with the beat. For an instant, the room went still; then the applause erupted—cheers, laughter, and voices joining in. One by one, everyone took their turn. My cousin and his fiancée launched into another classic, and soon the house filled with harmonies and joy, our voices weaving together in spirited celebration.
When I saw my children smiling, not hiding, but radiating pure delight, I felt something shift. In that shared moment of laughter and music, I was transported back to my own childhood wonder; the air itself seemed to shimmer again with that same intangible magic. Santa’s spirit had never truly vanished—it had simply changed form, finding new expression through our voices, through connection and joy.
This year, as the holidays approach once more, I’m already dusting off the karaoke microphones, preparing to coax my father onto the “stage” with a touch of Frank Sinatra’s charm and ensuring that the Jewish side of the family is well supplied with eggnog for courage. What was once a fear of lost magic has transformed into anticipation of new memories. The spirit of our family’s Christmas—once sustained by Santa—now thrives in the laughter, the rhythm, and the harmony of a tradition reborn.
Sourse: https://www.businessinsider.com/kids-stopped-believing-in-santa-new-holiday-christmas-tradition-2025-12
