When I was young, Christmas felt like the biggest, brightest event of the year. I always looked forward to it—not just because it was the only time I could get the toys I wanted, but because it meant seeing my family and cousins all in one place.

Back to December
Back then, December felt softer. Even the air seemed to sparkle, as if the whole world were holding its breath for something magical to happen. Christmas was my escape. My parents were always busy working, so the holidays were the rare moments when life slowed just enough for us to be together. Those days felt like stolen time—precious, warm, and fleeting.

One of my clearest memories is of the Ayala Triangle Lights and Sounds Show. I can still picture it: trees draped in lights that danced to music, kids running around with glowing toys, and the familiar hum of excitement in the air. I remember craning my neck upward, watching colors burst across the night sky, and thinking, This must be what magic looks like. Those nights weren’t just part of my Christmas—they were my Christmas.

but as I got older...
The holidays began to look different. The magic didn’t vanish, but it became quieter, more tucked away.

Christmas turned into a pause from my usual life—a brief break from responsibilities, work, and deadlines. I still enjoyed the reunions, the shared meals, and the warmth of familiar faces, but I knew things weren’t quite the same.

Even the gifts changed. No more dolls or remote-controlled cars. No new consoles to scream about at midnight. Instead, I’d unwrap clothes, kitchen tools, or something practical I actually needed. And while I appreciated them, I’d be lying if I said the spark didn’t dull a little. There was a time when I thought, Maybe this is just what happens. Maybe the magic fades as we grow up.

I was once them
Then I started seeing Christmas through the eyes of my younger cousins—the way they ran around the house, gasped at the lights, and stayed up waiting for Noche Buena as if it were the most important moment in the world.

And suddenly, it hit me: It’s my turn now.
My turn to pass the magic on.

My turn to be the adult who makes the holidays special.

My turn to create the kind of memories that once made my own childhood glow.

Watching their faces light up as they open gifts or seeing the wonder in their eyes at Christmas lights makes me feel that old spark again. The magic didn’t disappear—it just shifted. It moved from being something given to me to something I get to give. And maybe that’s what growing up really is.

Even in a world that can feel cold—when the news is heavy, when our backs ache from work, when life becomes a cycle of bills, deadlines, and survival—Christmas insists on hope. It reminds us of softness, wonder, and the small, beautiful moments that make everything feel lighter.

No matter how busy, tired, or bruised life makes us, the magic of Christmas shared with the people we love—over food, over laughter, over memories—can never be bought and can never be beaten. It grows with us. It changes with us. And every year, no matter what, it finds its way back.