Dear Santa,
I know it has been a long time since I wrote to you, but something in me felt pulled back to this small tradition, this quiet magic. Maybe it is the season itself. Maybe it is the kind of year I have had. Maybe it is the part of me that is still trying to believe good things can find their way to me. I do not know exactly why, but I do know I wanted to write.
This year has felt heavy in ways I never expected. It held moments of beauty, too, but also a kind of tired I cannot always explain. I think you understand that sort of thing. I think you have seen many hearts trying their best to keep going, even when they feel worn thin. Mine is one of them.
I am not writing to ask for anything extravagant. I think what I want most is a little steadiness. A small piece of peace that stays long enough for me to breathe again. I want warmth that lasts even after the lights come down. I want hope that does not slip through my fingers the way it usually does.
There are a few real things too. Simple things. A winter that is not too harsh. A soft morning to rest in. A day where my body does not hurt and my chest feels light enough to carry. A moment of laughter with the people I love. A reminder that I am not as alone as the dark sometimes tells me I am.
I would also love something symbolic. A sign that the year ahead will be kinder. Something small that tells me I am still allowed to believe in goodness, even after everything. Maybe it comes in the shape of a sunset or a handful of stars. Maybe it is a quiet reassurance I do not have to fight as hard as I used to. I would be grateful for whatever form it takes.
I know many people ask you for big things, impossible things, and maybe this letter is strange. But I think the heart of Christmas has always been this gentle honesty. The kind that shows up in simple words and quiet wishes. So here is mine.
Please bring a little light to the places in me that have been dim for a while. Please bring kindness to the people who need it most. And if there is room, please bring something soft for me too. Something that reminds me I am still growing, still healing, still here.
Thank you for reading this. Thank you for listening to the small voice in me that still believes in wonder. I hope you have safe travels, clear nights, and warm cookies waiting wherever you go.
Sincerely,
Kelly
Magic
Sometimes, Adults Need Wonder Too
I went to the Virginia Beach aquarium today.
It’s not the most impressive one I’ve ever seen, but it has its moments. The marsh walk is peaceful. The layout flows okay. The shark tank is the kind that makes you stop for a while.
My nieces are in South Dakota. All three of them—12 months, 4, and 7. I miss them. A lot.
They’ve never been to a real aquarium. Just the little ones attached to zoos—small tanks, maybe a touch pool, a few turtles if you’re lucky. Not like this. Not with massive walls of glass and sharks sliding past like shadows from another time.
I kept thinking how much they’d love it.
How much I wish I could bring them here.
But I also realized I needed to be here alone.
I love being their aunt. I love answering a million questions, pointing things out, helping them see the world. But today, I needed to see it for myself. Not through their excitement. Not through their voices. Just… for me.
There was this moment at the shark tank.
It was dim and quiet, the water dark and full of slow motion. A shark drifted by, huge and calm, with light trailing down its back like silver. Schools of fish moved like constellations.
And for a little while, no one asked anything of me.
I didn’t have to hold anyone’s hand.
I didn’t have to read signs out loud or carry a bag or answer “why.”
I just stood there.
And it hit me—
How long it’s been since I’ve stood in front of something beautiful
and not had to explain it.
It wasn’t loud awe. It wasn’t big joy.
It was something quieter. Something slower.
Something I didn’t know I missed.
I think adults forget we still need wonder too.
We build experiences for kids—and that’s good. I’m not saying we shouldn’t. I want my nieces to grow up swimming in awe. But I think somewhere along the way, we start handing wonder off to the next generation like it’s no longer ours to hold.
But it is.
We still need to feel small in the best way.
We still need to be silenced by beauty.
We still need to stand in front of the deep blue and let it hush us.
Even if the moment only lasts a few minutes—before the noise returns,
before the yelling kid,
before the glass gets slapped and the magic slips away.
It’s still worth it.
It still matters.
Today reminded me I’m not just someone who gives wonder.
I’m someone who needs it too.
And honestly?
The sharks deserve reverence.
The turtles deserve peace.
And so do we.
Kesem: What Magic Leaves Behind
There’s always one week that stays with me more than the rest.
Not because it’s louder.
Not because it’s easier or harder or flashier. But because there’s something about it that slows time a little. Something sacred in the air.
Like even the trees pay closer attention.
That’s what it feels like when Kesem shows up.
For the past ten summers, UVA’s Kesem chapter has made their home at Crossroads. William & Mary has joined for the last two. I’ve worked eight of those ten summers, and still—every time they return, something shifts in me. Something settles. Something opens.
They serve kids who’ve been impacted by a parent’s cancer. That sentence alone holds more weight than most of us know what to do with. And yet they meet that weight with joy. Not the surface kind. Not the forced kind. But the deep kind—the kind that makes room for both laughter and grief in the same breath.
And they do it so well.
I don’t work program. I’m not in the cabins or leading the chants. I’m just… there. Background support. I haul things, fix what breaks, fill water coolers, and make sure tables and chairs show up where they’re supposed to. Most of it goes unnoticed. That’s okay. It’s not about being seen.
But I do see. And after eight summers of watching from the sidelines, I can say this:
Kesem doesn’t just change kids. It changes places. And it changes the people who make space for it.
There’s something about how they hold their week that feels different. Intentional.
Like every moment matters. Every kid matters. Every memory they create is stitched together with love and glitter and safety and purpose.
They use nicknames—every camper and counselor—and that’s not just a fun tradition, it’s a boundary. A shield. A way to let kids just be, without the pressure of the real world pressing in. No last names. No labels. Just who you are that week, in that space. Free.
And because of that, there are no names in this post. Just love.
I’ve watched campers show up small and unsure, and leave loud and sunburnt and covered in face paint. I’ve watched counselors pour themselves out without complaint, building joy from scratch, holding pain with reverence, letting kids be loud or quiet or both at once.
I’ve watched the way they love.
And I’ve tried to match it, in my own quiet way.
Maybe that’s the part that stays with me the most—the way everything they do holds space for both grief and wonder. The way no one has to choose between the two. The way they never pretend the hard parts don’t exist—but they don’t let them have the final say, either.
There’s a kind of sacred that happens when people show up like that.
And I think we forget how rare that is.
So to the UVA and William & Mary chapters—thank you. For coming back. For trusting us. For letting us be part of something this beautiful.
To the counselors—thank you for showing up fully, even when you’re tired. For dancing and crying and staying present in every in-between.
To the campers—you carry more than most people ever will. And still, you choose joy. You choose to come. You choose to laugh.
And that… that is brave.
This week always moves something in me. It reminds me why this work matters.
Why camp matters.
Why kindness and play and glitter and trust still have a place in the world.
Kesem means magic.
And after eight summers, I still believe it.
The Stars Take Note 