When I was little, December didn’t just arrive — it shimmered into being, like glitter suspended in a snow globe, soft, sparkling, impossible to ignore. I woke up to the glow of holiday lights bleeding through the blinds and the entire house smelled like cinnamon, sugar cookies, and something warm rising in the oven. My socks slid across the hallway floor as I rushed to find our Elf on the Shelf posed somewhere ridiculous, like he had spent the night causing trouble only children could appreciate.
Everything felt enchanted. Even silence felt charged, as if the whole world was holding its breath, waiting for something extraordinary. I didn’t question magic. I didn’t need proof. I felt it in the way only a little kid can: effortless and without hesitation.
The Quiet Fade of Childhood Wonder
Somewhere between childhood and now, that kind of wonder softened.
Not because it vanished, but because life got louder.
Deadlines snuck in. Finals hijacked the season. The stretch of December that once felt endless suddenly arrived in fast-forward, slipping between exams, travel plans, and the constant buzz of responsibility. The lights felt a little dimmer. The carols felt familiar instead of electric. I kept promising myself I’d enjoy the season “when everything slows down,” forgetting that joy rarely waits for a cleared schedule.
Magic didn’t leave. I just stopped looking for it.
The moment I noticed the spark again
So I started finding it on purpose.
I bought a vanilla lip gloss that tasted like middle school memories and sleepovers. I painted my nails bubblegum pink, just because the color made me smile. I covered my laptop with bright stickers. I played old Taylor Swift songs and danced in my dorm room, letting my feet sink into the carpet as the bass thumped through my chest. These choices were small, almost silly but each one felt like reclaiming a piece of myself.
I remembered the warmth of my childhood kitchen, fogged windows and flour-dusted counters, the smell of vanilla and butter drifting through the room. My mom letting me lick the spoon. My brothers arguing over whose cookies were decorated the best. I realized that magic was never in the moment itself, it was in the feeling of being present, of paying attention. Of letting yourself enjoy something for no reason other than it makes your heart lift.
Choosing magic as a college girl
Now, I make that feeling for myself.
On purpose.
I brew peppermint tea when my room feels cold and my thoughts feel scattered. I watch snow fall from my dorm’s lounge window and let myself slow down enough to notice how quiet the world becomes. I tie a bow in my hair every once in a while. This was not for an aesthetic, not for anyone else, but because it reminds me that softness counts as strength too.
My mom always tells me, “Don’t let anyone dull your sparkle.”
I think I finally understand what she meant.
Your sparkle isn’t something others can take; it’s something you protect by choosing joy, even in small, gentle ways.
Magic isn’t lost, it just changes
Believing in magic as an adult isn’t naive.
It’s brave and it’s intentional.
It’s looking up from your phone when the sky turns cotton-candy pink at sunset.
It’s letting yourself laugh loudly with people who feel like home.
It’s holding onto the tiny rituals like lip gloss, stickers, warm drinks, bows, or anything that make life feel softer.
The truth is, magic never disappears.
It settles into the corners of your day, waiting patiently for you to look its way again.
Magic isn’t something you outgrow. It shifts, softens and waits for you in the quiet corners of your day. You find it when you pause to watch the sky blush at sunset, when you laugh with friends until your cheeks ache, when you choose small rituals that make life feel lighter. Growing up doesn’t mean losing magic. It means learning to notice it again and realizing it was always with you, waiting for you to believe.