The Older Child in the Courtyard: Remember the Kid Who Told You Santa Wasn’t Real? I’m Her.

I was sitting quietly the other day, and the thought of Easter came to mind. So many people are getting ready to celebrate this holiday—buying baskets, chocolate bunnies, plastic eggs, and all the pastel-colored packaging that marks the season. But as I reflected on it, something struck me deeply: how far we've strayed from the deeper meaning Easter was supposed to carry.

Unconditional love.

That’s the core message, right?

But what I’ve witnessed—and what I lived—was something quite different. I started to think about the lies we pass down to children in the name of tradition. The stories we dress in magic and wonder, like sugar-coated pills: the Easter Bunny. Santa Claus. The Elf on the Shelf. The Tooth Fairy. Each one a charming illusion built on the foundation of a lie.

And while the world calls it whimsy innocently fun, many of us quietly carried the weight of those deceptions long after the decorations were packed away.

The Moment the Magic Cracked

I was probably about four years old when I figured out on my own that the real “Santa” was my parents. I didn’t say anything, of course—what crazy child would willingly cut off their annual supply of toys? I played along. Smiled. Pretended to believe.

In Mexico, where I grew up in the early 70s, Christmas Eve meant going to bed early while my parents left us home alone to go to the local toy market that popped up for the season. They’d take our letters to Santa with them to purchase what they could find. I never, went to sleep, I would wait quietly, heart racing with anticipation, listening to the sound of the front door, the rustling of boxes, the whispered excitement of parents trying to recreate magic. Then once they would settle into bed, I would sneak out of my room, tiptoeing past their bedroom in pitch dark, and creaking wooden floors just to take a peek at the tree… only to be caught and get yield "Go to bed!!!!!". I always played along, but I knew they knew I knew.

But deep inside, something cracked.

That moment—they’re pretending, and I have to pretend too—planted a seed of mistrust. Not just in them, but in the world. I began to question everything. If Santa wasn’t real, was God? If magic was a story, could love be too?

I didn’t have the words for it back then, but I carried a deep loneliness—the kind that comes from knowing a truth you’re not allowed to say.

How That Moment Shaped Me

Looking back now, I see how that moment formed the foundation of so much of who I became.

I turned into the over-functioner. The people pleaser. The one who reads a room before speaking, who anticipates everyone’s needs, who performs the version of herself that feels safest to others.

Because I learned early on that the truth wasn’t welcome. That love, trust, even faith, seemed to be conditional—packaged in rewards for good behavior and punishments for stepping out of line.

And I can’t help but ask: why aren’t we talking about this more openly? Why are we still wrapping manipulation in glitter and calling it tradition? Why are we still equating surveillance with love and obedience with worth?

The Elf on the Shelf and the Culture of Control

The Elf on the Shelf is a perfect example. A watchful eye, silently judging your every move. A child’s behavior monitored and reported. It's marketed as “Memories Making fun.” But beneath that cuteness is something more insidious: the early wiring of shame, performance, and anxiety.

A child learns not to be good for goodness’ sake, but to avoid being punished. They learn to fear being seen. And worst of all—they learn to question their own truth.

These stories were meant to inspire awe and joy. But for many of us, they became the first fracture in our relationship with trust, self-worth, and spiritual connection.

If the Message Is Love, Let’s Make It Real

And here’s the thing: if unconditional love is truly the message of these holidays, then why not model that?

Why not teach our children that the season is about showing up for others? About helping the hungry, comforting the lonely, reaching out to those in need—not because someone is watching, but because love moves us?

That would be a tradition worth passing on don't you think?

The Older Child in the Courtyard

I’ve always been afraid to speak these truths. Afraid to say out loud that the magic wasn’t magical for me. That the lies left a residue of mistrust. That the loss of innocence wasn't a moment—it was a quiet, ongoing unraveling.

But not anymore.

Now, we are the adults. And like those children whose illusions are broken, we are being handed the truth—one that asks us to reevaluate, to awaken, to repair. To create something real out of the ruins.

And maybe that’s what this moment really is.

Me, the older child in the courtyard, finally saying the thing no one dared say out loud:

“Santa isn’t real.”

Not to be cruel. Not to ruin anyone’s joy. But because someone has to tell the truth.

Someone has to be the one to say: This isn’t love. This is conditioning. This isn’t harmless. This is betrayal wrapped in glitter.

It feels like I’m standing there, heart pounding, holding the truth like a small, warm stone in my hand—offering it to the younger ones still clutching their letters to the North Pole, still trying to be good enough, still hoping they’ll earn love with their silence.

I See You

I was you.

I played the part. I didn’t speak up. I smiled through the knowing. I carried the weight of participating in pretending so everyone else could feel comfortable in the illusion.

But I can’t unknow what I know. And I no longer believe that love and truth are opposites.

I believe they can walk hand-in-hand.

That honoring a child’s mind, heart, and spirit means telling them the truth—gently, lovingly, reverently. Because the true betrayal is not in breaking the myth. It’s in asking them to live inside it, long after they already know better.

It’s in forcing them to become little actors in a story they didn’t write, while we sit in the director’s chair, calling it love.

Let the Myths Fall. Let Honesty Rise.

So no—this isn’t “just for fun.”

This is a reckoning. This is a turning point. This is me choosing to stop pretending.

Because I don’t want to keep teaching the next generation that love is earned through obedience, or that joy is a transaction, or that magic is built on lies.

I want to teach them that love is already theirs. That truth is safe. That curiosity is sacred. That the world is still full of wonder—just not the kind that has to be manufactured and sold in shiny wrapping.

Let the myths fall. Let honesty rise.

And let us—those who were once silenced by the weight of illusion—be the ones to light the way forward. Not with stories we’ve outgrown, but with courage, clarity, and the kind of love that doesn’t need to be earned.

If This Stirred Something in You…

And perhaps—if reading this stirred something in you, something raw or uncomfortable—maybe it’s the echo of your inner child. The one who quietly grieved when the truth about Santa, The Easter Bunny, The Tooth Fairy or Elf on The Shelf surfaced. The one who never got to name the sadness, the confusion, the betrayal.

If this post feels triggering, it’s likely because a long-silenced part of you remembers exactly what it felt like to discover the truth while pretending you didn’t.

So honor that feeling.

Don’t push it away. Don’t cover it with logic or nostalgia.

Sit with it.

Let it speak.

Let it cry.

Let it be heard.

Because your inner child deserves to be met with the honesty and tenderness they were once denied.

We deserve to rise—not in bitterness, but in clarity. Not in fear, but in reclamation.

And in that rising, maybe we finally find our way back—not to fantasy, but to a truth far more magical:

That we are lovable, worthy, and whole—no lies required.

Journaling Prompt for the Inner Child

Take a moment to sit with this question—and let your inner child respond without judgment or filters:

"What did you feel the moment you first realized the story wasn’t real?"

Let the memory come as it is. Don’t force it to make sense or be poetic. Just feel it. Honor it.

Allow space for the child in you to speak—whether through sadness, confusion, anger, or even relief.

You’re safe now. And you have every right to tell the truth, too.

Tell the others....