As the holidays come upon us, I’m reminded of the time when I used to believe in Santa Claus. To me, Santa Claus was exactly as he was usually depicted in the media: a jolly, fat man with rosy cheeks, a red suit and a bag of toys that, if I’d been “nice” enough, would carry the toy that I’d so desperately wished for all year. I had a tradition of leaving notes for Santa on Christmas Eve and then waking up much earlier than usual to see what he had left me.

Unlike my friends, I never once considered the idea that my parents were the source of my joy on Christmas mornings. When people insisted that Santa didn’t exist, I was the first person to come to his defense. Most of my argument was unreliable, as I really didn’t know how to convince someone to have faith in Santa Claus, but that didn’t keep me from attempting to explain the idea.

For the longest time, my arguments stemmed from my fear of the possible consequences of not believing. Like Linus from Peanuts, I believed that admitting my lack of faith in Santa Claus would result in Santa not coming to see me that year--a risk that I simply wasn’t willing to take, especially not with two younger sisters who were also waiting for Santa and a Bratz sports car on the line.

In middle school, I wrote a letter to Santa saying that he was my hope for Christmas. Though my family may have had a hard time during the year, I could always count on Christmas to bring some happiness to everyone. The core of my faith rested in the belief that, because of my family’s financial needs, there was no way I could have such bountiful Christmases without Santa Claus being real.

My freshman year, after Thanksgiving dinner, my mom took me to a separate room and told me the truth: she was my Santa Claus. At first, I was distraught. I didn’t know how I was going to return to school and admit that Santa Claus wasn’t real. I wondered why my mom had let me go around, like an idiot, getting into public arguments about a fictional hero. The realization of the truth made me dread my inevitable return.

My mom attempted to make me feel better by telling me that not all the magic and surprise was gone from Christmas. Every year, she had managed to get my sisters and me the presents we’d wanted, and some years, that had meant asking for help from our other family members and friends. Santa Claus had visited our household, one way or another, and Christmas had come. Inspired, I returned to school with a new paradigm.

It’s been five years since I discovered the truth, but I still advocate for Santa Claus. Some of my friends still disagree, and sometimes we get into little disputes, but I still hold on to my new view of Santa. Yes, the Santa Claus depicted by the media is not real. But the idea of Santa Claus, the Christmas spirit that enables someone to give another person hope, is. Santa Claus could have rosy cheeks, he could be physically fit, he could be wearing blue, sparkly yoga pants, he could even be a she. At some point, everyone helps bring Christmas to another, and they become that person’s Santa Claus.

So, if you were to ask me what my thoughts were on Santa Claus, I’d have to tell you that he is wholly and totally real. And I’d know that better than anyone. After all, I'm Santa.