4 years old, counting the days till Christmas Eve,
doubting myself if I was a good girl,
and if Santa would give me the present I drew in the letter.
The tree stood for happiness, just for me.
My heart was so pure of love.
He equaled the simplicity of happiness in life.
7 years old, still counting the days till Christmas Eve,
but this time I didn’t believe in Santa anymore.
I believed that Jesus would gift me under the tree
on the morning of Christmas Day.
This time, I wrote and drew the letter myself —
I was the mature one who knew how to write perfectly.
I remember this Christmas:
my younger sister and I fought over who would put the star on the tree,
the final touch.
While fighting, I remembered that Mom told me
this is called the “love season,”
and I let my sister put the star.
9 years old, still counting the days till Christmas Eve.
I stopped believing in all these stories,
but acted like I did,
because I didn’t want to ruin the magic for my siblings.
I still wrote letters, and now I helped my siblings
do their own.
Everything felt more magical day after day, night after night.
The Christmas tree held bigger dreams than ever.
This time, it didn’t even suggest putting the star,
because it was their turn to believe in Christmas more than me.
12 years old, still counting the days till Christmas Eve.
This time, it wasn’t a Barbie I wanted, or a toy —
I wanted real makeup.
Just by looking at the crib,
every failure could be erased,
and broken things could still be renewed.
This year, I wanted my dog to be in the Christmas family photo,
and I was sad because I couldn’t let him believe in all the magic of the season.
This Christmas Eve was different —
it was the first day of my period.
I had stopped believing in Santa at this age,
but I believed that my period was the gift.
Here’s a toast to the end of the road:
the end of Christmas as a kid
Jan 2
Jan 2, 2026 at 11:21 AM UTC
4 years old, counting the days till Christmas Eve,
doubting myself if I was a good girl,
and if Santa would give me the present I drew in the letter.
The tree stood for happiness, just for me.
My heart was so pure of love.
He equaled the simplicity of happiness in life.
7 years old, still counting the days till Christmas Eve,
but this time I didn’t believe in Santa anymore.
I believed that Jesus would gift me under the tree
on the morning of Christmas Day.
This time, I wrote and drew the letter myself —
I was the mature one who knew how to write perfectly.
I remember this Christmas:
my younger sister and I fought over who would put the star on the tree,
the final touch.
While fighting, I remembered that Mom told me
this is called the “love season,”
and I let my sister put the star.
9 years old, still counting the days till Christmas Eve.
I stopped believing in all these stories,
but acted like I did,
because I didn’t want to ruin the magic for my siblings.
I still wrote letters, and now I helped my siblings
do their own.
Everything felt more magical day after day, night after night.
The Christmas tree held bigger dreams than ever.
This time, it didn’t even suggest putting the star,
because it was their turn to believe in Christmas more than me.
12 years old, still counting the days till Christmas Eve.
This time, it wasn’t a Barbie I wanted, or a toy —
I wanted real makeup.
Just by looking at the crib,
every failure could be erased,
and broken things could still be renewed.
This year, I wanted my dog to be in the Christmas family photo,
and I was sad because I couldn’t let him believe in all the magic of the season.
This Christmas Eve was different —
it was the first day of my period.
I had stopped believing in Santa at this age,
but I believed that my period was the gift.
Here’s a toast to the end of the road:
the end of Christmas as a kid