Santa is not a holiday hero for children growing up in poverty. I don’t think this is just because someone spoiled the excitement or because I caught him unloading gifts on my front porch—but because I knew, even at seven years old, that he didn’t exist. There was no chimney for him to slide down at my house. There was no ho, ho laughter filling the night, and no tree for him to place gifts under. We didn’t have one.
Growing up, Christmas looked
different for my family. My mom, a single mother raising me, my younger sister,
and my little brother, worked hard to make ends meet. Most months, she was just
trying to keep food on the table and her own sanity at peace. The idea of
Christmas trees, hanging lights, and wrapped presents felt unrealistic with
every holiday movie that came on our little tv in the room we all shared.
But that didn’t stop me from
writing letters to Santa. Even though I knew he wasn’t real, those letters were
more than a wish list. Penning the letters was my outlet, a space where I could
pour out my deepest frustrations about growing up poor.
“Dear Santa,” I’d write, “I’d
really love a new pair of school shoes this year, but I also wish my mom could have
a pair too. If you fake in real life and real in spirit then why God doesn’t
speak through you?”
I wasn’t just asking for clothes;
I was asking for relief—for her, for us, for the weight of it all to feel a little lighter. Lighter to bear. Those letters were my way of having hope that
one Christmas life would have a 360 for the following year.
Now that I am a mother, I
think about those letters every holiday season. While I strive to create precious
moments for my kids—with a tree covered in ornaments and hand wrapped presents
for them—I also choose to tell them the truth.
This year, I’ve sat them down
and explained that I am the one responsible for the gifts under the
tree. I want them to know that these presents come from love, hard work, and
small sacrifices —not from a big guy in a tight red suit.
“Your mama works hard to make sure you have what you need and some of what you want,” I tell them.
“There’s
no Santa sneaking in this apartment while y’all sleeping—just me, making sure
your Christmas is a special one.”
Some might say it takes the
excitement out of the holidays, but I disagree. To me, there’s a lot of light
about knowing the people who love you are the ones working behind the scenes to
make you smile. There’s something grounding about showing my kids that joy
doesn’t come from Santa Clause and his elfs but from real, tangible love and
effort.
And while I don’t feel shame for
letting my kids know that Santa is not real, this is what feels right for my
family. I want my kids to grow up to understand that gifts reflect love and
gratitude. Buying them gifts during this time of year is not something owed to
by the universe. I want them to know the value of hard work and my efforts
alone to make things shake over here throughout the year.
So, as I watch them tear into
their presents this year, I’ll feel a mix of emotions: happiness, excitement,
and maybe a touch of nostalgia for the girl who wrote those letters to Santa as
a little girl. That little girl never received the things she knew she deserved
and were well behaved for and did not receive. However, what younger me did get
was a deep, unshakable appreciation for love, sacrifice, and the gratitude of
doing your best, even when it’s hard.
And maybe that’s a kind of Christmas joy that should be celebrated.
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