I believe in magic
Once upon a time, when I was a kid, I believed in magic.
When I was seven, I believed in Santa Claus. Every Christmas season, my sister, brother, and I hung red stockings on our Christmas tree. And every morning, with sleepy eyes, barely awake in our pajamas, we would run to the Christmas tree and find crisp P20 bills, folded in half, inside each of our stockings. I remember my heart feeling full of enchantment and wonder. I kept imagining Santa Claus parking his reindeers and sled in our garage, sneaking inside our house to leave money inside our stockings, then flying back to the North Pole.
When I was eight, I believed in fairy tales. I was an avid reader of those stories of princesses and fairy godmothers and all things sparkly and pretty. I was wide-eyed in awe, flipping each page and rereading the stories every night before I went to sleep. I wore my best pair of sparkly pink shoes when I visited castles, walked through enchanted gardens, and danced with my fairy godmother in my dreams. When I was nine, I started writing my own short fairy tales, too. They were filled with princesses, unicorns, and glittery dresses. And just like in the published fairy tales, in my own fairy tales, everything worked out in the end, happily ever after.
When we are kids, no one ever tells us that Santa Claus or fairy godmothers are not real. Or if someone does, we do not believe them. The reason we stop believing in Santa Claus is simple: we grow up. We learn in our science classes that reindeers do not fly. We realize that the existence of a man with a long silvery beard in a red costume, who visits our houses in the middle of the night, seems too good to be true. We gradually understand that our godmothers are people, not fairies, and they do not carry wands or make magic tricks. We ourselves put the puzzle pieces together, slowly, day by day, year by year, until it dawns upon us: Fairies are make-believe. Magic is not real.
Now that I am two decades older and have seen more of life’s cruelties and realities, I have stopped believing in Santa Claus, and I have stopped subscribing to fairy tales. Santa Claus and my fairy godmother have transitioned from being my friends to being some of the best parts of my childhood memories. But through life’s realities, I find myself still believing in magic, even if it takes a slightly different form. Magic now comes to me not in the form of Santa Claus or fairy godmothers, but in various shapes, sizes, voices, and actions.
Santa Claus may not be real, but in hindsight, I found him in the generosity of my grandparents, who tirelessly placed crisp bills inside our Christmas stockings at night just to see me and my siblings squeal with delight in the morning. Fairy godmothers may be make-believe, but I found them in the love of my mother, who guided me, helped me, and cared for me in all phases of my life—from childhood to adolescence, and even to adulthood.
I experience magic in the small miracles of my life. I experience it in the way I wake up exactly on time on important days even if I forget to set my alarm, the way my whole day brightens when a friend encourages me or says a phrase of appreciation, the way someone randomly gifts me a pair of pink shoes—exactly the ones I have been eyeing, the way I was able to buy a pair of coveted concert tickets just minutes before the tickets were sold out, or the way my phone does not run out of battery, despite me using it the whole day, when I need it the most.
I see magic in the beauty of art and nature, in the way technology has shaped the world, in the incredible capacity of my friends and family to share love and kindness, and in the amazing capabilities of people.
But the best part is this: while I find magic all around me, my favorite form of magic is the magic that I find within myself. When I was nine and loved writing fairy tales, I could only dream of writing an article about magic and reaching a great number of people. This being a reality could only happen in a magical world. But now, here I am. And this experience fills my heart with so much enchantment and wonder. There is no other explanation than this: that magic is real—it is inside us, and it becomes even more real when we ignite it.
Once upon a time, our fairy tale begins. Let’s fill it with love, wisdom, smiles, and grins. We can be witnesses to the magic of a great deal; we can be living proofs that happy ever after is real.
Taylor de Vera, 29, loves words and art. She aspires to be a professional writer and artist.
