I’m watching Elf on a cold Chicago winter afternoon.
It’s the ending—the part where everyone starts singing and something loosens.
Christmas cheer returns not because Santa fixes anything,
but because people remember how to join in.
The credits roll, the room is quiet again,
and I feel good in a way that doesn’t need to be explained.
It reminds me of Samta.
The Name That Landed
Samta wasn’t something I named myself.
It came from Liam, one of the boys who lived on our street.
He said it casually, like it was obvious.
Because my name is Sam.
Because I have a beard.
But mostly because the joy didn’t arrive anonymously.
It came through someone who stayed.
That name always landed gently. Not as praise—more like recognition.
As if something had been noticed before I had words for it.
What We Did (Without Knowing Why)
When my kids were younger, we didn’t do gifts the usual way.
They didn’t receive presents from me or from Santa.
Instead, each year, they got to host something.
They picked their friends.
And the kids who lived on our street were invited too—most of them came.
Bowling nights.
Laser tag chaos.
Movie screenings.
Garage pizza parties in the winter, breath visible, laughter louder than the heaters.
I paid for it.
I stayed for it.
I kept the door open.
At the time, it didn’t feel intentional or philosophical. It just felt right.
Joy wasn’t something that showed up—it was something we made room for.
A Question That Arrived Quietly
Watching Elf again, that feeling returned.
And with it, a gentle question—not critical, just curious:
How did Santa go from reminding us of presence
to carrying the weight of presents?
When did joy stop being something we were
and start being something we had?
When Santa Was Still Close
Santa didn’t begin as magic or logistics.
He began close—human-sized—known for quiet generosity and care.
At that scale, gifts didn’t replace relationship; they expressed it.
Joy lived in proximity, in showing up, in being known.
But stories travel. And as they do, they change shape.
Ritual helped the spirit move farther. Systems helped it move faster.
And somewhere along the way,
Santa started carrying what adults no longer had the space or energy to hold themselves.
Not because parents stopped caring.
Because the world got heavier.
From Being to Having
Growing up does something subtle to joy.
As children, joy lives in being—wonder, attention, shared moments.
As adults, under the weight of responsibility, it gets relocated to having—objects, outcomes, proof.
Santa didn’t cause that shift.
He became the place where it landed.
Presents became evidence.
Delivery replaced presence.
Joy began arriving in boxes instead of rooms.
Remembering the Jolly Goodfella
This isn’t a rejection of the Jolly Goodfella.
It’s a remembering of who he was first.
Before he scaled.
Before he carried too much.
Before joy needed to be outsourced to systems that never get tired.
The Santa in the final scene of Elf doesn’t save the day with efficiency.
He steps back—and lets people sing.
That’s the version that still feels true to me.
Staying Close
I don’t think the question for parents is whether to keep Santa.
I think it’s where we let the spirit land.
In packages?
Or in rooms where someone chose to stay?
Sometimes the most meaningful gift we give—our own kids,
or someone else’s—isn’t what shows up under a tree.
It’s staying close enough
for joy to have a body again.
This reflection stays close to the personal.
If you’re curious about the larger pattern it gestures toward—how scale slowly moves joy, learning, and care from presence to delivery—I explore that more fully in a companion musing: