The Story Corner

Hello there,

I know you think I don't see you. That somehow, in all the noise of the season, you've been overlooked. That the world is celebrating and you're standing outside the window, watching.

But I do see you.

I see the way you keep going when everything feels heavy. The way you show up even when no one notices. The kindness you offer even when you're empty. I see the courage it takes just to get through some days.

You are not forgotten. You never have been. And I don't care if you stopped believing in me years ago — I never stopped believing in you.

There's a light in you, even when you can't feel it. Especially then.

Hold on, friend. You matter more than you know.

With love,
Santa 🎅

Dear one,

I know this Christmas looks different than you planned. Maybe someone's missing who should be there. Maybe you're far from home. Maybe everything has changed and you're not sure how to do Christmas in this new shape your life has taken.

Here's what I've learned in all my years of Christmas Eves: the holiday isn't about how things look. It's not about the perfect gathering or the right number of people around the table. It's about tiny moments of connection — even if that connection is just with yourself.

Light a candle. That's Christmas. Watch something that makes you feel something. That's Christmas too. Wrap your hands around something warm and breathe. That counts.

Different doesn't mean lesser. Sometimes the quietest Christmases are the ones that heal us.

You're doing fine. Better than fine.

Warmly,
Santa 🎅

Hey you,

Yes, you — the one worrying about whether you've been "good enough" this year.

Let me tell you a secret about that list everyone worries about: it doesn't work the way you think. I'm not keeping score of your mistakes. I'm not tallying up the times you lost your temper, or said the wrong thing, or fell short of who you wanted to be.

You know what I see? I see someone who tried. Someone who got up after getting knocked down. Someone who cared enough to worry about being good in the first place.

That's not naughty. That's human. And humans are my favorite.

You deserve good things. Not because you earned them with perfect behavior, but because you exist. That's always been enough.

Now stop worrying and go have a cookie.

Ho ho ho,
Santa 🎅

Dearest,

Everyone asks about the magic of Christmas. The flying reindeer, the workshop, the one-night-around-the-world journey. And yes, those are wonderful. But after all these years, do you know what magic I treasure most?

The sound of snow falling when you stand very still. The way a fire sounds different at midnight than it does at noon. How a cup of cocoa can turn a bad day into a bearable one. The comfortable silence between people who love each other.

That's the magic that matters, I think. The quiet kind. The kind that doesn't announce itself but just... is. Present in the small moments. Waiting to be noticed.

You don't need reindeer to find magic, dear. You just need to slow down enough to see what's already there.

With love,
Mrs. Claus 🤶

Sweet child,

I see how tired you are. The kind of tired that sleep doesn't fix. The kind that comes from carrying too much for too long, from giving more than you have, from pretending everything is merry when it isn't.

Can I tell you something? You're allowed to be tired. You're allowed to not feel the magic. You're allowed to go through the motions this year if that's all you've got. Going through the motions still counts as going through.

Rest isn't earned, dear. It's needed. And you've needed it for a while now, haven't you?

So here's what I want you to do: lower the bar. Lower it more. More. There. Now anything above that is a victory. Stop trying to have a perfect Christmas and just have the Christmas you can manage.

That's enough. You're enough.

Rest well,
Mrs. Claus 🤶

My dear,

There's an empty space at your table this year, isn't there? Or an empty space in your heart that used to be filled with someone's voice, their laugh, their particular way of being in the world.

I'm so sorry.

Grief at Christmas is a particular kind of ache. Everyone else seems to be celebrating, and you're trying to figure out how to breathe around this absence. How to unwrap presents when the person who gave the best ones is gone. How to sing carols with a lump in your throat.

Here's what I know: missing them is a form of loving them. Your grief is your love with nowhere to go. And that love doesn't end just because they're not here to receive it anymore.

So let it out however it needs to come. Cry. Talk to them — they hear you, I'm certain of it. Light a candle in their memory. Say their name out loud. Keep loving them in whatever way you can, because love doesn't need a living body to be real.

They're not gone, dear. Not really. Not as long as you carry them.

With all my heart,
Mrs. Claus 🤶

Hello, love,

So Christmas doesn't feel like Christmas this year? The decorations look flat, the songs sound hollow, and everyone's excitement feels like it's happening behind glass you can't quite reach through?

That happens. It happens more than people admit, actually. The feeling of Christmas isn't something you can summon on command. Sometimes it comes flooding in, and sometimes it stays just out of reach, and that's not a failing on your part.

Here's what I've found: don't chase the feeling. Chase the small, true things instead. One candle. One warm drink. One moment of real connection. One act of kindness, even if it's just to yourself.

The feeling might follow. Or it might not. Either way, you still had the candle, the warmth, the connection, the kindness. And those things are Christmas too — maybe more so than the feeling itself.

Be gentle with yourself. Christmas will still be here next year. And so will you.

Gently,
Mrs. Claus 🤶

Pepper tells this story every year, and every year it gets more dramatic. Let me give you the actual version.

It was three days before Christmas, and we'd misplaced an entire batch of toy trains. Three thousand of them, just... gone. The workshop was in chaos. Santa was pulling his beard out. The elves were searching everywhere.

Pepper, who was supposed to be organizing wrapping paper, had gotten distracted and built a fort out of cardboard boxes in the corner of Warehouse Seven. When we finally found him (three hours later), he was sitting in the middle of a cardboard castle — surrounded by three thousand toy trains he'd "borrowed" to use as a moat.

"I FOUND THEM!" he shouted, like he hadn't been the one who'd taken them in the first place.

We let him have it. The story, I mean. Everyone needs a story where they're the hero. Even if the rest of us know the truth.

Snowball showed up at the cottage on a December night about fifty years ago, a tiny white puff of fur half-frozen in the snow. Santa brought her in, tucked her by the fire, and that was that. She belonged to us. Or we belonged to her — she's never been clear on that point.

That first Christmas with Snowball, we didn't know what we were in for. The tree went up, beautiful and sparkling, and Snowball watched it with what we thought was wonder.

It was not wonder. It was reconnaissance.

She waited three days, until the tree was fully decorated. Then, at midnight, she launched herself from the mantle directly into the branches like a furry cannonball. The tree went down. Ornaments everywhere. Santa came running in his nightclothes thinking we were under attack.

Snowball sat in the wreckage, looking deeply satisfied.

She does this every year. Every. Year. We've tried everything — different trees, different placements, citrus sprays, training. Nothing works. She waits. She watches. She strikes.

At this point, we consider it a tradition.

Jingle is our youngest elf, still learning how everything works. Last year was his first time being part of the Christmas Eve preparations, and he had questions. So many questions.

"Mrs. Claus, how does Santa know who's been good?"

"Mrs. Claus, how do the reindeer fly?"

"Mrs. Claus, what if someone doesn't have a chimney?"

"Mrs. Claus, what if a kid asks for something impossible?"

That last one stopped me. "What do you mean, impossible?"

"Like... like if a kid asks for their mom to not be sad anymore. Or for their parents to stop fighting. Or..." he got quiet, "or for someone to come back who can't come back."

I set down my knitting. "Jingle, come sit."

He climbed up on the footstool, all ears and worry.

"We can't fix everything," I told him. "We can't bring people back, or make sadness disappear, or make families whole. That's not what Christmas magic does."

"Then what good is it?"

"It reminds people they're not alone. It's a night when a little bit of wonder breaks through. It doesn't fix everything — it just helps people keep going until things can get better on their own. Sometimes that's enough. Sometimes that's everything."

He thought about that for a long time. Then he nodded, hopped down, and went back to work.

He asks fewer questions now. But better ones.

People always ask about the "Ho ho ho." Is it magic? A special technique? Something to do with the belly-like-jelly?

Here's the truth: Santa has the most ridiculous laugh you've ever heard.

When we first met — and yes, I'll tell that story someday — the thing I noticed wasn't his kindness or his presence or his vision for bringing joy to the world. It was that when he laughed, really laughed, he sounded like a startled walrus.

Over the centuries, it evolved. The walrus bark became more of a bellowing "HO," repeated because once he starts, he can't stop. It's genuine, is the thing. You can't fake that laugh. And when Santa laughs, you can't help but laugh too — half because it's contagious, half because it's so absurd.

The elves love it. I love it. The reindeer think he's lost his mind every single time.

Joy isn't dignified, dear. It's messy and loud and sometimes sounds like a startled walrus. And that's what makes it real.