10/12/2025
We haven’t written them yet.
We’re hovering in that quiet space where traditions start to stretch,
where no one wants to be the one to say it out loud.
I don’t want to break the spell,
but I also don’t want to force something that might already have shifted.
So what is the answer?
What happens when the magic changes?
When your littlest might know,
or is simply standing on the edge of knowing?
The planning, the making, the late nights, the quiet hope that they’ll feel the magic we’re trying so hard to create - it’s exhausting.
And yet, when you look back, you realise it was always worth it.
So we’ll leave it unspoken.
Because magic does exist.
Every year we sit down to write our letters to Father Christmas.
We stain the paper with teabags, singe the edges together, candles flickering, our German hand-me-down carousel turning in its gentle circle, mince pies waiting at the end.
Every time we do it, I’m swept back through all the Decembers before:
chaos, a never-ending list of to-dos. Tiny hands, squeals, then quiet stillness.
I love the pause it gives, the quiet together, the magic of just sitting side by side, with a shared purpose.
Maybe this year we’ll do something slightly different.
Perhaps we’ll write our hopes and wishes -
not to Santa, but to ourselves, to the year ahead.
Or maybe we won’t.
Maybe we’ll just sit with the candles, the carousel, the mince pies, and linger in the in-between carols in the background
Where the magic isn’t perfect,
and maybe never was.
But it was always ours.
Do you feel the same?
❤