I can still recall the eager anticipation of choosing my own outfit, including my favorite bright blue Christmas sweater, a beloved red-velvet dress, and a couple bright colored hair bows. I was three or four and I was ready to meet Santa Claus. While you’d think my outfit would be flawless, like a child straight out of a Christmas ad, instead it was fairly obvious from the photos my mom showed me that I had dressed myself. But no matter how the bright colors of my outfit clashed, I thought I was beautiful.

I ran into the bright glittering mall, filled with lights and sweet smells, giddy that Christmas had finally arrived. I danced through the line, singing Christmas songs as my parents giggled at my excitement. Finally, I got my chance, and sat right on Santa’s lap. In that moment, Santa was real. Santa was special. He brought Christmas.

Fast forward to me at eleven years old, when I had a very different take on Christmas. Visiting Santa for what seemed like the millionth time, I was holding the hands of my seven year old sister and four year old brother. I was angry walking through the decrepit mall. It didn’t seem to sparkle like it had before. I did not want to be there. Not long before, my mother, trying to spare me the embarrassment of being that sixth grader trying desperately to prove Santa’s existence to a bunch of cut-throat, pre-pubescent teenagers, had sat me down for the “talk” about Santa. I was honestly crushed. Years of hard work trying to impress a fictional character had gone to waste. Complete waste.

But after being told the heart-breaking news, I had hesitantly promised my mother I would go with my siblings to see Santa. I waited in the long line and stared at the ground. The music really wasn’t as pretty as it used to be. And it smelled funny. I looked up and counted the broken lights. ‘One of the “elves” really should get on that,’ I thought.

Finally it was our turn. My siblings ran forward to Santa, a rather stout man with an obviously fake beard (how had I not seen this before?). After a quick eye roll I walked forward, and stood behind my siblings. Suddenly Santa looked at me. “What do you want for Christmas this year?” I looked at my siblings. They were lucky they didn’t have to have their dreams crushed. Their eyes were filled with excitement. Their big sister was about to make her wish.

Staring into the face of a strange old man who wasn’t actually magical but instead listened to kids all day and lied about making dreams come true (seriously…how did I not see this?!?) I understood that as badly as I wanted to rip the beard off his face (like Buddy the Elf screaming “HE’S A FAKE!”), this was about more than just myself. The best gift I could give my siblings was the gift of hope and belief in a world I had just realized was a little crueler than I thought. By participating with them in their beliefs, I saw a glimmer of hope, that maybe, although Santa would never actually show up, that the spirit was still there. Looking at my mother, she seemed just as excited, even though she had been the bearer of bad news. While the belief of Santa may have changed, there was still hope and excitement from those who maybe had a different perspective.

Faced with the events in the world today, I still sometimes feel a bit like my cynical eleven year old self. The world isn’t as glittering as I once thought. But knowing what I know now -- how do I find the hope in the world around me? While I may no longer believe in Santa, I believe in the joy of uniting with family, celebrating the season (and obviously the reason behind it), eating too much food, and seeing the joy in others. While at times the world, filled with anger and chaos and hate may seem to overwhelm us, it is something we must all aspire to achieve. Witnessing the hope and belief of someone else as well as the good things around us offers the possibility of a better tomorrow.