A Gentle, Honest Look at the World We’re Creating for Our Daughter
There are a lot of hot-button topics that divide the internet: pineapple on pizza, daylight savings, whether leggings count as pants. And then there’s Santa Claus. Mention Santa online and suddenly grown adults are ready to duel with tinsel swords about whether Christmas joy will crumble without a bearded man breaking into people’s homes.
So before anyone clutches their pearls or their North Pole membership card, let me say this up front:
We don’t care how you celebrate Christmas. Truly.
If Santa makes your holiday magical, wholesome, nostalgic, hilarious, or beautifully chaotic, we love that for you.
This post is not a conversion attempt. It’s not a manifesto.
It’s simply a window into the world EJ and I are choosing for our daughter — a world where Santa just doesn’t play a starring role.
We still love Christmas. We still plan to make it magical. There will be lights, memories, traditions, matching pajamas we will end up wearing all day, and the kind of calm, intentional celebration I never really got growing up.
But Santa?
No.
Not in our house.
And here’s why.
“Christmas is still magical.
We’ve just chosen a different kind of magic.”
1. The Lie Thing: We Just Don’t Want to Do It
Let’s start with the obvious one: the lying.
Both EJ and I, for different reasons, feel uncomfortable with the idea of telling our child a story we actively present as truth, knowing full well it isn’t.
Some parents don’t consider Santa a lie. Some call it “play,” “imagination,” or “the magic of childhood.” And that’s completely valid for them.
But for us? It crosses a line we don’t want to cross.
We want our daughter to know that when we say something is true, it’s true. When we say something is pretend, it’s pretend. We want her to trust that her parents will always be honest with her — even when truth is harder, messier, or less sparkly than the alternative.
EJ is particularly strong on this one. He’s a “facts matter” kind of dad. He believes that honesty builds safety, and safety builds trust, and trust builds connection. He doesn’t want our little girl to ever have that moment of “Wait… so you guys all knew this was fake and kept up the performance anyway?” He doesn’t want the first big betrayal of her childhood to come gift-wrapped from the North Pole.
And honestly?
I get it.
Because for me, the lie hits differently.
2. Magic Doesn’t Require a Stranger in a Red Suit
People often say, “But Santa makes Christmas magical.” And you know what? They’re right — for lots of kids, he does. But that doesn’t mean magic disappears without him.
My daughter’s magic doesn’t come from a fictional man placing store-bought gifts under a tree. Her magic comes from the two people who love her most showing up in a way the world once never did for us.
She gets magic from the smell of Christmas breakfast.
From the soft rustle of wrapping paper.
From baking cookies together.
From dancing in the kitchen.
From knowing she is wanted, safe, and cherished.
The true magic isn’t that a random man she’s never met brings her presents.
It’s that her parents — tired, imperfect, trying-their-best parents — choose to create joy with her, not for her.
We are the magic.
Not Santa.
And I don’t want her to miss that.
3. As a Survivor of Childhood Trauma, the Santa Narrative Feels… Complicated
This part is harder to write, but important.
When you grow up with abuse, certain “normal childhood traditions” don’t land the same way.
Being told that a stranger entering the house at night — while everyone sleeps — is somehow safe? For me, that idea hits every alarm bell in my body.
Being encouraged to sit on the lap of a man we don’t know, because he’s wearing a costume and society deems it cute? That one hits a nerve too.
People don’t mean harm with these traditions.
But for someone with my history, the story behind the story matters.
To me, Santa teaches a few things I don’t feel great about:
- Strangers coming into the house is okay if they’re “nice.”
- Being touched or posed with someone you’ve never met is okay if adults tell you it is.
- Personal boundaries are flexible if it makes for a cute holiday photo.
I don’t want Ruby learning that.
Not even in a magical, well-intentioned, festive context.
In our home, the rule is simple:
No one enters without permission, and no one touches without consent — not even fictional holiday icons.
4. The “Good Kids Get Presents” Thing Feels… Outdated (And Honestly Unhelpful)
Oh, this one.
The Santa narrative tends to lean on a pretty big behavioural message:
If you’re good all year, you get rewarded.
If you’re naughty, you get nothing.
But kids are not morally consistent little elves.
They’re learning.
Growing.
Melting down over the wrong colour cup.
No child on Earth is “good” all year.
And the idea that gifts are tied to behaviour creates weird emotional pressure that simply isn’t necessary.
Imagine a child who tries their absolute best, struggles with emotional regulation, or has sensory challenges, trauma, disability, or anxiety.
Imagine them thinking their hard year equals fewer gifts.
Children deserve love without conditions.
Celebration without strings.
Joy without emotional debt.
I want Ruby to know she receives gifts because we love her — not because she “earned” them by surviving 365 days of being one years old. Being a toddler is hard enough.
5. The Over-Commercialisation of Santa (EJ’s Turn to Rant, But I’ll Hold the Mic)
Let’s talk modern Santa.
Because the Santa we celebrate today?
He’s not ancient folklore.
He’s marketing.
Yes, the idea of Saint Nicholas is old — a real man known for generosity.
But the jolly red-suited, Coca-Cola-advertisement Santa?
The “buy more, spend more, Christmas must be huge or it’s nothing” Santa?
He was built by corporations who realised the most powerful sales strategy is a holiday built around gifts.
EJ sees this very clearly.
He worries that Santa keeps people trapped in a cycle of overspending and performative holiday perfection — that Santa represents a version of Christmas more rooted in consumer pressure than genuine connection.
He wants Ruby to learn what generosity really is — people caring, not people buying. He wants her to enjoy Christmas without thinking joy only happens when money is spent. And he definitely doesn’t want us pushing past our limits just to keep up a story.
We’d rather celebrate small, meaningful traditions than big, expensive illusions.
6. The Recognition: I Want Ruby to Know Who Gave What
This part is personal in a way that still sits under my skin.
When I was little, Christmas felt enormous. It wasn’t just a holiday; it was a whole season of believing something magical was coming — even though, looking back, we didn’t have much at all. My mum didn’t have money to spare, but she had grit. Determination. That quiet kind of strength mums develop when they’re the emotional backbone of a household while the other parent is… well, technically there, but not really part of the heavy lifting.
She created magic out of thin air. Somehow there were always presents. Somehow there was always a special meal. Somehow the house felt softer and warmer, even in years that were anything but. My mum made Christmas happen through sheer will, and as a child I thought she had some secret hotline to the North Pole. Because how else do you make something from nothing?
It wasn’t until years later — long after the childhood sparkle had faded and I’d gained the clarity adulthood brings — that I learned the truth. One year, when things were especially tight, my mum sold her wedding ring just to give me a Christmas she couldn’t afford. She traded something deeply personal, tied to her own memories and meaning, so that I could wake up to gifts and magic like every other kid bragged about at school.
And the part that still gets me?
At the time, I thought Santa did it.
I didn’t know it was her.
I didn’t know she worked that hard.
I didn’t know she went without.
I didn’t know her sacrifices were what made my childhood sparkle.
I handed all the awe — all the gratitude — to a fictional man in a red suit.
Meanwhile, the woman who loved me most was behind the curtain, pulling every string.
There’s a quiet ache in that. Not dramatic.
Just a soft, lingering sadness for the younger me who didn’t see the truth, and for the mum who never got the recognition she deserved.
And that’s a big part of why I’m choosing differently for Ruby.
I want her to know exactly who shows up for her. I want her to understand that the gifts she unwraps come from real hearts, real hands, real love — not a stranger in the sky and not some magical man who takes all the credit.
Us.
I want her to see our effort, not because we need applause, but because I didn’t see my mum’s — not fully, not until much later. I want Ruby to feel the intention behind everything we do for her, so she grows up knowing love is made by the people who tuck her in, hold her close, and build her world — not by a myth who slides down chimneys.
I want her to understand where the magic actually comes from, so she never has to unlearn it the way I did.
7. The “We Don’t Care What You Do” Part
I cannot emphasise this enough:
We do not judge people for doing Santa.
We do not think Santa is harmful.
We do not think parents who love Santa are wrong.
People do Christmas in all kinds of beautiful ways.
Some go big.
Some go minimal.
Some go traditional.
Some go chaotic.
Some create their own Christmas lore involving elves, reindeer spies, and calendars with more chocolate than sense.
If it brings your family joy, that’s all that matters.
This post is not here to shame or persuade or preach.
It’s simply here to say:
This is what feels right for our family.
This is the world we want to build for Ruby.
This is the truth that aligns with our values, our history, and the kind of parenthood we’re choosing.
You can celebrate Christmas with Santa, without Santa, with ten Santa’s lined up in inflatable form across your lawn. We’re all just doing the best we can with the childhoods we had.
So What Will Christmas Look Like for Us?
If we’re not doing Santa, what fills that space?
Connection.
Tradition.
Presence instead of presents.
Magic built from intention, not illusion.
We’re excited for:
- Cozy family breakfasts that smell like cinnamon and chaos.
- Driving around looking at Christmas lights.
- Photos in matching pajamas if Ruby cooperates and I don’t melt down first.
- Opening gifts knowing exactly who they’re from.
- Creating traditions she can one day pass on — not perform, not hide, not discover were never real.
We want Christmas to be safe, slow, grounded, and emotionally honest.
We want Ruby to trust us.
We want her to understand love in its purest, clearest form.
The absence of Santa doesn’t take anything away.
If anything, it adds something we value more:
A Christmas built on truth, presence, family, and the quiet kind of magic that lasts long after the wrapping paper is gone.
Final Thoughts
Santa is a lovely tradition for many families.
He’s nostalgic, joyful, creative, exciting.
And we’re not here to rain on anyone’s sleigh.
But for us — because of our histories, our values, and our hopes for Ruby — he simply doesn’t fit.
We’re choosing something different, not because Christmas needs fixing, but because we want our daughter to grow up in a home where consistency, consent, connection, and trust are the foundation of every story we tell her.
Santa or no Santa, Christmas can still be magical.
In our house, the magic just comes from the people who love her most — not the man who parks reindeer on the roof.
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