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
wonder
Me and the Moon (We’re Not on Speaking Terms)
I know she’s beautiful.
I know.
The way she rises over the trees, soft and gold like something out of a story. The way people talk about her like she’s this gentle, steady presence. Like she’s comforting. Like she belongs in poems and lullabies and quiet prayers.
And maybe she does.
But sometimes, I hate her.
I do astrophotography. And I love the stars, really love them. Not in a casual, “oh that’s pretty” kind of way, but in the kind of way that keeps you breathing when everything else feels too heavy. In the way where the night sky becomes a place to rest. A place where you don’t have to smile, don’t have to speak, don’t have to be okay. You just look up and remember that you’re still here.
And I wait for those nights. I wait for clear skies like some people wait for answers. I watch the forecast. I watch the clouds. I stand outside barefoot, camera in hand, hoping this will be the night the stars show up for me.
But if the moon is full, it’s over before it starts.
Her light spills everywhere. It’s too loud, too much. It drowns out the stars like they never mattered. Like they were never even there.
And I hate that feeling.
Knowing they’re out there, just hidden.
Like something I love is being kept from me.
I’ve tried to work around her. I’ve adjusted settings. Changed angles. I’ve tried to make peace with it. But the truth is, she ruins it. She takes what I came for and washes it away. And it’s not even her fault. She’s just doing what she does. Reflecting. Glowing. Showing up.
But it still feels personal.
Because I came out here for quiet. For wonder. For that ache that feels a little bit like hope. And instead I get this brightness that won’t let me in. And maybe it’s just a sky problem. Maybe it’s just photography.
But it feels like more than that.
It feels like every time I try to show up for something—something small, something sacred—it gets overshadowed. Like I get overshadowed. Like I’m always chasing the thing I love most, and something bigger, louder, brighter comes and takes up all the space.
I know it’s not fair to blame the moon.
But sometimes I do anyway.
And I know people would tell me to see her beauty too. To love the glow. To take pictures of her instead. But that’s not what my heart came looking for. My heart came looking for stars. For the hush. For that quiet kind of magic that reminds me I’m not alone.
And some nights, the moon makes me feel lonelier than anything.
But still, I keep going out.
Even when I know she’s there. Even when I know I won’t get the photo I want. I still step outside, still look up, still try. Because maybe there’s love in the trying. Maybe there’s something sacred in standing beneath a sky that doesn’t bend for you and loving it anyway.
Maybe one day I’ll figure out how to hold both.
The moonlight and the missing.
The soft and the sharp.
The ache and the beauty.
But for now, me and the moon?
We’re not speaking.
And honestly, I think that’s okay.
I’ll wait for the dark.
I always do.
The stars are worth it.
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.
The Stars Take Note 