When Santa Knew Where We Lived

This black and white photo captures everything about Christmas 1967—three kids pressed against our living room window in Yakima, noses smooshed against the glass, breath fogging up the pane. That's my brother, my sister, and me (I’m the one in the apron on the right), straining to catch the first glimpse of Santa's sleigh coming down our street.

The anticipation was everything. We knew he was out there, making his rounds, and any minute now we'd see him. The house smelled like sugar cookies and pine. Bing Crosby was playing softly somewhere in the background. And we were absolutely, completely certain that magic was real.

Because when you're that young, Christmas isn't complicated. It's pure wonder. It's believing with your whole heart that reindeer can fly and that someone kind is bringing you exactly what you've been dreaming about. The only catch? You had to be good.

And that's where things got tricky. Who decided what "good" meant? One misstep—a sassy remark, a forgotten chore—and suddenly you were wondering if you'd made the Naughty List. The judgment felt everywhere, like those creepy paintings where the eyes follow you around the room.

And don't even get me started on the Elf on the Shelf. I get the intention—parents wanting a little holiday magic, a gentle nudge toward kindness. But somewhere along the way, it became less about wonder and more about surveillance. That little elf with its painted-on smile, watching every move? It's just another way we teach kids early on that love and acceptance come with conditions. That you have to earn what your heart most wants.

No wonder so many of us grew up feeling like we were never quite measuring up. Like there was always an invisible standard we could never quite meet, no matter how hard we tried.

Here's what I've learned, slowly and sometimes painfully: real love doesn't work that way. It took me decades to understand it. I spent years trying to earn love, shrinking myself down, performing the role of "good enough" until I forgot who I was underneath it all. But love—true love—doesn't ask you to be perfect. It doesn't keep score. It doesn't threaten to withhold itself if you make a mistake.

That little girl pressed against the window, waiting for Santa? She didn't need to earn the magic. It was already hers. And so is yours.

So as we're here in the thick of the holiday chaos—wrapping gifts, managing schedules, trying to make everything feel magical—I hope you'll give yourself permission to drop the performance. Let go of the invisible measuring stick. Stop trying to be "good enough" and just be.

Because you are meant to love and to be loved. Not if. Not when. Now. Just as you are.

Santa knows where you live. And so does love.

With love and light,

Michèle