Yep. I do. Before I explain why, let me tell you about the day I was told Santa isn’t real.

A cold day in December I was sitting in a cold, pea green Pinto outside my dad’s apartment. It smelled of old seats and a mix of gas, oil and the crisp winter that seems to make your nose sting. I was sitting in the passenger seat with my dad in the driver’s seat. I don’t remember what we were talking about before we parked, but I remember him telling me that the jolly ‘ol St Nick isn’t real and it was in fact (brace yourself): him and my mom!

My eyes started to sting and the tears welled. I turned my face out my window to hide my disappointment and maybe my embarrassment. My little 9 year old self: embarrassed that I didn’t know that the story was just a myth. Disappointed that everyone I knew was lying to me. My whole family (I am the youngest of 4 boys) was playing me. My mom!? I couldn’t wrap my mind around it, but somehow I knew he was right. My dad left me in the car, alone, cold and crushed, to gather my thoughts and pick up the pieces of what he had just gently broke. My mind reeled: I knew there couldn’t possibly be a man who traveled the entire western world with reindeer and a sled. Not to mention that the dude in the mall looked different every year and my mom’s excuse of “he’s a Santa helper,” didn’t seem legit to me. But that Satna’s not real at all? I don’t remember what happened after that. I’m not sure how I moved on, or what I did to come to grasp with the truth of the new world around me. A world that, in an instant, was much less magical.

As I age I see the world with a little more compassion. I see us all struggling along the way, doing the best we can with what we have. Most of the time, we are doing so well. Sometimes, when our better nature peeks through our egotistical and scared shell, we see others in need and want to help alleviate some of the pain we see. Sometimes we do it, sometimes we don’t. When we do, sometimes we do it and seek the high of charity we feel burn inside us. Sometimes we don’t seek that feeling at all, we simply want to be part of magic of goodness in the world.

I believe that we all have the ability to be a source of magic, goodness, kindness, and love. I hope that we have the ability to do it absolutely selflessly. And here, we introduce Santa Clause.

See, I am Santa. So are you, so is my mom, and my dad and the stranger that paid for my diner that night I was broken and alone in a dinner away from home. I believe that Santa is the name we give the magic when we want it to be about the other person, and not about us. When we really understand that, Santa becomes real. So real, in fact, that it nearly becomes the purpose of life; certainly the purpose of this time of year. At the end of year, and ushering in a new one, we have the chance to be the best versions of ourselves. We often seek to become kinder, healthier, smarter. This is my favorite time of year not for all the activities I get to do, or the food that adds that extra layer of human around my waist, but for the spirit I feel burning inside me. The real me, aching to get out and make this place we’re all hanging out in, just a little better for no other reason that have someone feel the warmth of magic inside them.

So, ya. I believe in Santa, the real Santa. He’s the best of me, the best of you. He is who is there when we realize that it really is better to give, and to give without reward or thought of yourself. He has qualities I find supremely valuable and I’m desperately trying to be more like him.

When my boy asks me, in a freezing car, some cold December day sooner than I can prepare for, if Santa is real, I can confidently say, “Yes, son, he is, if you want to be him.”

I have thalassophobia; fear of open water. I used to think I was afraid of sharks (they are still terrifying, and I get sweaty palms when I think about swimming with them), but it isn’t just sharks. I don’t remember it ever starting, it’s just kinda always been. Growing up, I remember being fearful in local reservoirs. I would have a hard time controlling my panic after I fell off the tube or water skis. I remember looking at the endless horizon of the ocean on vacations and knowing, to my bones, that something out there was calling me. Like a lot of little boys, I wanted to live the (romantic) life of a pirate, but I knew that I couldn’t last because of my fear. The fear, like the open water, is deep. I feel something deep in me trying to connect to something deep in the water. This isn’t a peaceful connection. It’s dark, cold, heavy. The beat of my heart gains new bass and world becomes chilled when the depth calls to me. The silence of the water deafens me. This is bizarre to me since I was born and raised in the high desert of Utah. But this isn’t a secret.

Like a lot of kids, I was afraid of the dark. I had an imaginary friend (Fozzy) who helped, and I eventually outgrew it. I do remember, however, after watching “The Blair Witch Project” in high school, I may or may not have turned on a lot of lights when I got home. 😉

I grew up afraid of snakes. So I spent time in the local library reading everything I could about them till I could handle it. I eventually had a pet boa.

I have climbed over 20,000 feet tall peaks, I have dangled from sheer cliff sides by just my fingers. I have gipped the handles of ice axes while climbing frozen waterfalls. I have jumped out of airplanes, and walked on tightropes over canyons. I’ve never been afraid of heights, but I can’t handle standing on a ladder very well. I get to the middle of the ladder and I just know it’s gonna tip over. When I get to the top, and there are nothing for my deathgrip to squeeze, the world spins.

Heights, snakes, confined spaces, the dark, even the creepy spiders I dislike, aren’t fears of mine; not my biggest fear anyway. My biggest fear I hide. I put on a shelf, in the furthest corner of my mind and conceal it. Covering it with charismatic illusions in the hopes that no one will ever see it. Because my biggest fear…

is that you’ll see me…

the way I see myself.