Finding Forty

Creating holiday magic from the ground up

I used to think the magic of Christmas belonged to childhood.

To those who grew up with matching pajamas, steady traditions, and stories retold every December without fail.

I used to believe that Christmas magic was inherited, like an heirloom passed down through generations.

But when you grow up without heirlooms, when your memories are marked by instability, unpredictability, or emotional landmines, the holidays do not glow with nostalgia.

They sit heavy.

For some of us, Christmas was not magical.

It was loud.

It was lonely.

It was uncertain.

Every year looked different, and the best we could hope for was that this one might be a little less dramatic than the last.

When you do not come from tradition, you do not step into adulthood carrying recipes, rituals, or warm memories.

You step in carrying determination.

You carry the quiet ache of what you wish you had known.

And somehow, in the most unlikely way, you use that ache as fuel.

That is what cycle breakers do.

We do not recreate something we once loved.

We create something we never had the chance to experience.

And let me tell you, there is nothing effortless about creating magic from scratch.

Christmas, for me, is not made of inherited rhythms.

It is made of rolled up sleeves, late night lists, last minute ideas, and sheer hope.

It is searching for simple traditions, lighting a candle because it feels like something families do, and building a season moment by intentional moment.

It is taking a deep breath and whispering

Let this feel like magic for them.

Even if it never felt like magic for me.

Cycle breakers do not chase perfection.

We chase gentleness.

We chase stability.

We chase moments our children can tuck into their hearts without fear.

And somewhere in the middle of the work, between the wrapping paper and the whispered bedtime stories, a quiet truth begins to rise.

The magic is not found.

It is forged.

It is created in the way we show up again and again, offering our children what we are still learning to offer ourselves.

Safety.

Softness.

Wonder.

So if Christmas feels heavy, complicated, or unfamiliar to you as an adult, if you are piecing it together with willpower and compassion, know this:

You are not doing it wrong.

You are doing holy, healing work.

You are creating the memories your children will one day look back on with warmth.

You are giving them the magic you were never given.

And that is the quiet, powerful beauty of being a cycle breaker.

The traditions you build today become the heirlooms they carry tomorrow.

And this year, as the season begins, I find myself watching two little boys take in the early signs of Christmas with wide eyes and open hands. One is just beginning to notice the lights, asking tiny questions and waiting for a magic he only half understands. The other is nestled against me, unaware of the weight this season once carried, already held in a gentler story than the one I grew up with.

And even now, before the wrapping paper and the cocoa and the chaos, I can feel it happening.

The shift.

The softening.

The quiet proof that the work I am doing matters.

Because the magic does not wait until December twenty fifth.

It shows up in the small beginnings.

In the early mornings.

In the way they throw down and lean in, safe.

In the way they look around, loved.

In the way the season feels steadier in their hands than it ever did in mine.

The magic I never had is already becoming the world they get to grow up in.

And that alone makes every effort, every choice, and every moment worth it.