i still believe in santa clause

For two days, I did as many Christmassy things as possible in New York City, where I live.

I went to the Museum of Natural History to see their annual installment of the Origami Tree.

I walked Fifth Avenue and saw all the designer stores’ lavish holiday installations. The Louis Vuitton one was particularly insane.

I went to an immersive holiday show, Santa’s Secret, where I saw the Nutcracker work the pole in a G-string, and Santa’s secretary, wearing just nipple stickers, splash in a life-sized martini glass.

In great news, I learned that Mrs. Claus is a lesbian.

I went into Bergdorf Goodman, one of the last of its kind among American luxury department stores, and tried on Miu Miu glasses. A man passing by told me they looked “too smart…too techy.” And I was like, “Oh, okay.”

I walked through Central Park to Rockefeller Center to see the famously lit tree.

I ate oysters and drank champagne at Grand Central.

I visited the New York Transit Museum’s gift shop in Grand Central, where they have a 34-foot model train display that goes over the East River, through the woods, and to its final destination: the North Pole. A MUST-SEE.

I ran in Prospect Park—not notably festive but still beautiful this time of year.

I walked through Chelsea Market—another example of where Christmas and capitalism merge into one beast.

I went to an ASMR Christmas experience, Tingle Bells. It made me nauseous, and I quickly left.

Then, I went to the West Side Highway, where we meandered onto Little Island, a dramatic and futuristic structure. My boyfriend told me he once went on a first date there with another woman. Awesome!

I ate dinner at one of the coziest restaurants in the West Village, Buvette—a great place to dine all year round, but particularly fabulous during the holidays.

I caroled and realized Frosty the Snowman is a low-key devastating jingle.

I went to Salt & Straw for the first time in New York. When I lived in L.A., I would go at least once a week. I tried every one of their holiday flavors. Gingerbread and Toasted White Chocolate with Peppermint were the best.

On my way home on the subway, I felt tired, slightly hungover from my mistletoe Cosmo, and ready for bed. A little dog yapped.

I did all these things in an attempt to find—or maybe forcibly recreate—the magic of Christmas, something I haven’t felt for many years. For the past decade, Christmas has come and gone. I’ve felt sidelined by the grey sludge of January, February, and March—a trio of months that test the strength of mentally ill women across the Northeast.

I believed in Santa for longer than the average child. When did you stop believing? For me, it was the 6th grade, when I was 11 years old (almost 12). Only a few weeks before Christmas break that year, I had gotten into a fight with a tow-headed boy who was trying to tell me Santa was a sham, which I vehemently decried. He ridiculed my enduring belief in the large, jolly man.

Anyway, I obviously don’t believe in Santa anymore. And I’m not sure I’ll ever recreate the Christmas magic I felt as a kid when I still did believe. But I think part of growing up is coming to terms with that. Childhood is filled with excitement because everything feels new. As adults, we have to work harder to find that thrill for life, and I think that’s why adulthood can feel so challenging, so bleak.

Being a kid doesn’t really prepare you for being an adult—it’s like training for volleyball your whole life, only to show up and be told to play professional soccer instead. And we’re like, “wtf is soccer???”

Christmas is a microcosm of that. As children, we experience the holiday one way—through magic and belief—but as adults, we have to relearn how to find that magic in a new way. It’s not about believing in Santa anymore (which, yeah, would be weird) but about believing that goodness is out there even if we can’t see it.

I was raised atheist, and my dad would always tell me, "If you can’t see God, it doesn’t exist." Ironically, he fully committed to the bit of making me believe in Santa, who I never saw of course. But as I’ve gotten older, I’ve realized belief doesn’t have to disappear—it just changes.

My dad was wrong: so much of happiness relies on believing in good things you can’t see. When I’m struggling with my own mental health, I have to believe there’s a lighter, happier version of life ahead, even if I can’t feel it in the moment. That optimism, however difficult, is essential.

I know it’s literally the corniest cheesiest thing I could EVER write on the internet, but Christmas reminds me that the magic ultimately comes from within. A horned up holiday show isn’t going to create Christmas magic, nor is a cozy dinner at Buvette, or the gingerbread flavor at Salt & Straw. The real magic is the enduring belief in something purely good—something that exists only to spread joy, to foster love, to create levity during the heavy months of winter. As kids, that was Santa. As adults, it’s up to us to rediscover and hold onto that belief, whatever form it takes.