The SantaBlog Series, Day 16. (Why We Still Believe in Christmas)

THE SANTABLOG SERIES

DAY 16

_{Press play before you scroll. Let’s get into that Christmas spirit. Let’s go ho ho}

The Belief We Pretend We Grew Out Of

At some point in our lives, most of us are told that belief is something you outgrow. That it belongs to childhood, to imagination, to a softer version of yourself that didn’t yet know how the world really works. We’re encouraged, gently or otherwise, to become sensible, realistic, grounded. To trade wonder for logic. To stop believing in things we can’t prove.

And yet, every December, something strange happens.

Fully grown adults, who pay bills, worry about mortgages, carry grief, and understand exactly how harsh life can be, still turn the lights on. They still play the songs. They still wrap presents with care. They still lean into traditions they could easily dismiss if they wanted to. They still protect something quiet and fragile inside themselves that looks an awful lot like belief.

We don’t talk about it much, because it sounds childish if you say it out loud. But belief never actually leaves us. It just changes shape.

When we’re young, belief looks like Santa. It’s simple. Magical. Clear. Someone is watching over things. Someone is making sure kindness counts. Someone turns up in the darkest part of the year with gifts and reassurance and proof that joy hasn’t forgotten us. That belief is easy to spot, because it wears a red suit and leaves footprints in the snow.

As we get older, we’re told that Santa disappears. That the story ends. That once you know the truth, belief is supposed to vanish with it.

But it doesn’t.

It slips underground. It becomes quieter. Less obvious. It hides inside other things. Inside tradition. Inside ritual. Inside the way we recreate the same moments year after year, even when life has changed around us. Inside the way we still want December to feel different, softer, more meaningful than the rest of the year.

We still believe that Christmas matters.

Not because we think a man flies through the sky, but because we want to believe that kindness still has weight. That generosity still means something. That taking care of each other isn’t naïve or pointless. That even in a world that often feels brutal and divided, there is still space for warmth, for giving, for shared stories that remind us who we want to be.

That’s belief too.

We believe in Christmas because it asks something of us that the rest of the year doesn’t. It asks us to slow down. To notice people. To remember. To forgive a little more easily. To reach out when we might normally stay quiet. To create moments of light in the darkest stretch of the calendar.

And deep down, whether we admit it or not, we want to believe those moments are real. That they matter. That they don’t just disappear once the decorations come down.

So we keep the story alive.

We tell it to our children. We play along. We protect the magic longer than we probably need to. Not because we’re lying, but because we’re preserving something. A feeling. A belief that the world can be gentler than it often is. A reminder that joy doesn’t have to be earned through suffering.

That’s why Christmas survives scepticism. That’s why it survives cynicism. That’s why even people who say they don’t care still feel something when the songs start playing and the days grow shorter.

Because belief was never really about Santa.

It was about hope, dressed up in a story simple enough for children, and strong enough to follow us into adulthood.

And whether we like to admit it or not, we’re still carrying it.

Belief Doesn’t Disappear, It Changes Shape

Somewhere along the way, we are told that growing up means letting go of belief. That believing is something we outgrow, like fairy tales or imaginary friends. Christmas, we are quietly informed, is for children. Santa becomes a story. Magic becomes marketing. Wonder gets replaced by realism. And yet, for something we are supposed to stop believing in, Christmas has an odd way of surviving long after we supposedly know better.

Because belief does not vanish when facts arrive. It simply shifts.

As children, belief is simple. Santa is real because we are told he is. Christmas works because the rules are clear. Be good, go to sleep, wake up to something wonderful. There is no cynicism in that belief, no conditions attached. It exists because we trust the people who love us. And when that belief eventually cracks, when the truth slips in through a poorly hidden present or an overheard conversation, something interesting happens. The magic does not collapse. It adapts.

We stop believing in Santa as a man, but we start believing in effort. In tradition. In ritual. In the idea that someone stayed up late to make the morning feel special. We believe in the care behind the scenes, even if we no longer believe in the story itself. The belief moves from the figure to the feeling.

Adults like to pretend they are immune to this. We tell ourselves we are practical now. Logical. Too grounded to need myth. But look closely at how we behave in December. We put lights on buildings that do not need them. We replay songs we have heard a hundred times because they make us feel something specific. We repeat the same meals, the same jokes, the same arguments, year after year, because familiarity itself has become comforting.

That is belief in action.

We believe that certain things matter more at Christmas. That time together counts differently. That kindness feels heavier. That absence is felt more sharply. None of this is rational. It is emotional truth, not logical fact. And emotional truth is often far more powerful.

Even the most sceptical person will still pause at Christmas. They might not say it out loud, but something in them responds. A memory. A smell. A sound. A sense that this time of year holds weight beyond the calendar. That belief does not require a supernatural explanation. It only requires memory and meaning.

We believe because belief connects us to who we were.

Christmas acts like a bridge between versions of ourselves. The child who believed fully. The adult who knows better. The person in between who still wants to feel something familiar and safe in a world that no longer guarantees either. Belief becomes less about truth and more about continuity. About carrying something forward instead of letting it disappear.

That is why Christmas stories endure even when we know how they are constructed. We already understand advertising. We already know the history. We already recognise the patterns. And still, every December, we lean back into it. Not because we are fooled, but because we choose to be open.

Belief, at this stage, is not ignorance. It is permission.

Permission to feel hopeful without justification. Permission to be sentimental without embarrassment. Permission to slow down and mark time differently. Permission to believe, just for a moment, that kindness is louder than chaos and that warmth can still be created deliberately.

This is why Christmas belief does not die with childhood. It matures. It becomes quieter, more layered, more human. It no longer lives in certainty, but in choice.

We believe because we want to. Because the alternative is a world stripped entirely of softness. And most of us, no matter how grown we are, are not ready to give that up.

Belief Isn’t About Truth, It’s About Meaning

Somewhere along the way, belief got misunderstood.

We started treating it as something childish, something that only exists until it’s disproven. As though belief has an expiry date. As though once you grow up, learn the facts, see behind the curtain, belief should quietly pack its bags and leave.

But that’s never really been true.

Adults believe in things all the time. Not because they are provably true, but because they matter. We believe effort will be worth it. We believe tomorrow might be better. We believe people can change. We believe love is worth the risk even when experience tells us otherwise. None of these beliefs come with guarantees. None of them are immune to disappointment. And yet, we carry them anyway.

Christmas belief lives in that same space.

When children believe in Santa, they aren’t believing in a man with a beard and a sleigh in a literal sense. They are believing that something good is watching. That kindness gets noticed. That generosity exists without expectation. That magic can arrive quietly in the night without demanding anything in return. Those ideas land long before logic ever gets involved.

And the strange thing is, even when we grow up and stop pretending Santa is physically real, we rarely let go of what he represents.

We still want the world to be kind. We still want generosity to exist without conditions. We still want to believe that goodness can move unseen through the darkness and leave something better behind. The belief doesn’t disappear, it just changes shape. It matures. It becomes less about fantasy and more about meaning.

That’s why Christmas belief survives adulthood.

It isn’t about convincing ourselves of something we know isn’t true. It’s about choosing to participate in something that makes life feel more human. In a world that often feels transactional, rushed, and relentlessly practical, Christmas gives us permission to suspend that mindset for a while. To act generously without keeping score. To give without needing credit. To believe that moments of goodness still count, even if they don’t fix everything.

Belief, at its core, is not about ignorance. It’s about intention.

When we decorate, sing songs we’ve known forever, repeat traditions we could easily abandon, we aren’t doing it because we’re fooled. We’re doing it because these things connect us to something older than ourselves. Something shared. Something that reminds us who we want to be, even when the rest of the year pulls us in the opposite direction.

Christmas belief is a quiet rebellion against cynicism.

It says that even if the world has disappointed us, we are not done hoping. Even if we’ve seen how hard things can get, we are still willing to soften for a while. We choose warmth over suspicion. We choose nostalgia over numbness. We choose to believe that kindness is not naive, it’s necessary.

And maybe that’s the real reason Christmas endures.

Not because we are fooled by stories, but because we understand exactly what they give us. A shared language for hope. A reminder that belief doesn’t have to be factual to be powerful. That meaning can be chosen. That faith in small goodness is still faith worth holding onto.

We don’t believe in Christmas because we don’t know better.

We believe because, in a world that often strips things back to their harshest truths, Christmas lets us choose something gentler. Something warmer. Something that reminds us we are still capable of wonder, even now.

The Stories We Choose to Carry

By the time we reach adulthood, most of us know the mechanics of Christmas. We know the routines, the traditions, the timings. We know when the shops will be busy, when the adverts will change, when the songs will start looping. We also know the truth behind the curtain. Santa, the magic, the impossibilities, the tidy endings. We’ve learned how it all works. And yet, something strange happens every year. Even knowing all of that, we still step back into the story.

Not because we’re fooled. But because we choose to be.

Belief, real belief, isn’t about ignoring reality. It’s about deciding which parts of reality we give weight to. Christmas survives adulthood not because we think it’s literally magical, but because it represents something we don’t want to lose. The idea that kindness can be ordinary. That generosity doesn’t always need to be earned. That warmth can exist even when the world outside feels sharp and cold.

As children, belief is simple. It’s given to us. As adults, belief becomes a decision.

We know the year has been hard. We know people are struggling. We know the world is messy, loud, unfair, and often cruel. We know that Christmas doesn’t fix any of that. And still, every December, we soften. We decorate. We slow down. We tell familiar stories. We repeat rituals that no longer need explaining. We allow ourselves to feel something that logic alone would never justify.

That’s not weakness. That’s humanity.

Christmas stories endure because they speak to parts of us that reason alone cannot reach. They remind us of who we were before responsibility took over. Before disappointment taught us to brace ourselves. Before we learned to keep our expectations low just in case. These stories give us permission to feel openly, even if only for a short while.

That’s why belief shifts rather than disappears.

For some, belief becomes tradition. The same meal cooked the same way. The same decorations pulled from the same box. The same music played at the same time each year. For others, belief becomes presence. Putting the phone down. Staying a little longer. Listening instead of rushing. Being there without trying to fix anything.

And for many of us, belief becomes memory.

We carry Christmases that no longer exist. People who are no longer here. Homes that have changed. Traditions that faded quietly without ceremony. Christmas gives us a place to hold those memories without needing to explain them. It allows grief and joy to sit side by side without forcing one to cancel the other out.

That’s why the season feels heavier and warmer at the same time.

We believe in Christmas because it gives shape to things we struggle to name. Hope. Forgiveness. Connection. The idea that the year can end gently, even if it began brutally. That we are allowed to pause before starting again. That the world, for a moment, might lean toward kindness rather than demand.

This belief doesn’t need to be loud. It doesn’t need to be public. It doesn’t need to be perfect.

Sometimes belief looks like doing the bare minimum and still showing up. Sometimes it looks like protecting your own peace. Sometimes it looks like choosing softness in a culture that rewards hardness. Sometimes it looks like lighting a candle, playing a song, and letting yourself feel something without judgement.

Christmas belief isn’t about pretending everything is fine. It’s about choosing not to let everything harden you completely.

And maybe that’s why, year after year, we keep coming back to it. Not because we need convincing. But because we need reminding.

That gentleness still has a place.
That stories still matter.
That even in a world that rarely slows down, we are allowed to.

What Christmas Gives Us When Life Takes Things Away

There comes a point in life where Christmas stops being about what’s under the tree and starts being about what’s still standing. Not in a dramatic way. Just quietly. You notice it when certain faces are missing, when traditions shift, when the room feels different even though the decorations are the same. Christmas doesn’t erase loss. It sits alongside it.

And yet, despite everything that changes, something keeps pulling us back.

We still put the lights up.
We still play the songs.
We still gather, even if the gathering looks smaller than it once did.

That persistence is not denial. It’s resilience.

Christmas has always existed in hard times. It survived wars, hunger, displacement, grief, and uncertainty long before it became a season of excess. In those moments, it wasn’t about celebration. It was about reassurance. About marking the passage of time when time itself felt unbearable. About saying, we are still here.

That’s why Christmas traditions endure even when life strips things away. They give shape to chaos. They offer familiarity when everything else feels unstable. They remind us that even when we’ve lost people, certainty, or versions of ourselves, not everything disappears at once.

There’s comfort in repetition. In doing something because it’s always been done. Not because it fixes anything, but because it grounds us. A familiar song. A familiar smell. A familiar moment in the day where everything slows just enough to breathe.

This is why Christmas still matters when life has been unkind.

It doesn’t pretend things are fine. It doesn’t demand joy. It simply creates a space where we’re allowed to feel connected again, even if that connection is quiet, fragile, or temporary. It offers a pause in the year where we can acknowledge what’s been lost without being consumed by it.

Belief, in this sense, isn’t childish. It’s deeply human.

We don’t believe in Christmas because everything is perfect. We believe because it gives us something to hold onto when perfection is no longer an option. It reminds us that warmth can exist alongside sadness, that light can exist without erasing the dark, and that meaning doesn’t disappear just because circumstances change.

Christmas gives us permission to carry both.

And maybe that’s why, year after year, even after everything life takes from us, we still show up for it. Not because we expect miracles, but because the act of showing up itself becomes one.

What We’re Really Protecting

By the time we reach this point in December, most of us know exactly what we think we’re protecting when we say we “believe in Christmas”. We tell ourselves it’s tradition. Family. Nostalgia. Childhood. But if you strip it back far enough, none of those things are the real reason.

What we are actually protecting is the idea that the world can pause.

Christmas gives us permission to stop. Not fully, not perfectly, but enough to notice what usually gets drowned out by noise. It creates a pocket of time where being softer isn’t weakness, where slowing down isn’t failure, where caring openly doesn’t need justification. In a world that constantly demands productivity, speed, resilience, and armour, Christmas quietly pushes back.

That matters more than we realise.

Because the rest of the year teaches us to brace ourselves. To expect disappointment. To assume the worst. To keep moving even when we’re tired. Christmas interrupts that rhythm. It reminds us of a version of ourselves that once believed people were mostly good, that kindness was normal, that generosity didn’t need a reason beyond someone else needing it.

Even if we’ve been let down since then, even if life has proven more complicated than we expected, the belief doesn’t disappear. It just becomes quieter. More guarded. More selective about when it shows itself.

That’s why Christmas still hits people emotionally even when they insist they’re not bothered anymore. The decorations, the music, the smells, the rituals, they all point back to a time when belief felt safer. When the world felt smaller and more manageable. When hope didn’t feel naïve.

We’re not clinging to Christmas because we don’t understand reality. We’re clinging to it because reality is heavy, and we need something that reminds us it doesn’t have to be hard all the time.

Believing in Christmas isn’t about denying how messy the world is. It’s about choosing to believe that the mess isn’t the whole story.

That’s why we keep telling the same stories. Why we pass traditions down even when they feel outdated. Why we recreate moments that can never fully be recreated. We’re not chasing perfection. We’re protecting meaning.

And maybe that’s the most human thing we do all year.

We don’t believe in Christmas because it’s always been kind to us. We believe in it because it represents the parts of us that still want to be kind anyway.

The Choice We Keep Making

So why do we still believe in Christmas?

Not the surface version. Not the adverts or the routines or the noise. But the quieter belief underneath it all. The one that survives disappointment, grief, exhaustion, and years that didn’t go how we hoped.

We believe because Christmas gives us permission to pause in a world that never stops asking for more. It allows us to soften, even briefly, without having to justify it. For a moment, it becomes acceptable to slow down, to reflect, to remember, to care. That matters more than we realise.

We believe because Christmas carries memory. It holds echoes of who we were, who we loved, and who loved us. Even when those people are gone, the feeling lingers. A smell. A song. A tradition we don’t even fully remember starting. These things root us. They remind us that we didn’t arrive here alone, and that our lives are stitched together by moments that still deserve to be honoured.

We believe because Christmas allows us to imagine a better version of ourselves, even if only for a day. Kinder. More patient. More generous. Less guarded. We might not live up to that ideal all year, but the fact that we still recognise it, still reach for it, says something important about us. It means the instinct for goodness hasn’t gone anywhere. It’s just been buried under life.

We believe because hope, even fragile hope, is powerful. Especially in winter. Especially when days are short and the world feels heavy. Christmas doesn’t promise that everything will be okay. It simply suggests that maybe, for a moment, it could be gentler. And sometimes that suggestion is enough to keep us going.

And perhaps most of all, we believe because Christmas reminds us that meaning doesn’t have to be logical to be real. We know the stories. We understand the mechanics. We see the cracks. And yet, year after year, we choose to step into it anyway. We choose warmth over cynicism. Connection over isolation. Belief over indifference.

That choice is not naïve. It is deeply human.

Christmas survives because we keep choosing it. Not because it is perfect, but because it reflects something we still want to be true. That kindness matters. That generosity counts. That light still has value, even when darkness feels easier to accept.

So yes, we still believe in Christmas. Not because we’re fooled by it. But because, in a world that often feels fractured and loud and unkind, belief itself becomes an act of quiet defiance.

And maybe that’s what Christmas has always been.

Not a season.
Not a story.
But a reminder of who we are when we choose to care.

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