The Footprints in the Snow
Christmas, for me, didn’t begin with tinsel or television adverts. It began with silence.
Not the awkward silence of a room where nobody knows what to say… but the deep, padded quiet of snow. The kind that absorbs sound and makes the world feel as though it’s holding its breath.
I was four… maybe five. We were living in Norway then. Dad was with the Royal Signals, stationed north, and our home sat in Ljan… a small satellite community on the edge of Oslo. It felt remote to a child. Properly remote. Forests pressing in, long winters, skies that seemed bigger than anywhere I’d known before or since.
The house was… enormous. At least it felt that way through a child’s eyes. Norwegian in style, solid, timbered, purposeful. It had its own grounds. A summer house. Space enough for imagination to run riot. The kind of place that didn’t need embellishment… it already felt like a story.
And then there was Christmas.
I remember waking up and knowing something had happened in the night. Not because anyone told me… but because the air felt different. Charged. Expectant. Like the world had quietly rearranged itself while we slept.
Outside our bedroom doors were footprints.
Santa’s footprints.
They weren’t perfect… and that somehow made them better. A dusting of white… talc, no doubt, though I didn’t know that then… tracked across the floor, looping between our rooms as if he’d paused, hesitated, doubled back. Proof of movement. Proof of presence. Proof that something impossible had passed through our very ordinary house.
Dad had clearly gone to some effort. More effort than I could ever articulate at that age. Enough effort to make three children believe… completely… that magic wasn’t just real, but attentive. Observant. Personal.
And then the sacks.
Not stockings. Sacks.
Huge, unruly things, slumped at the foot of our beds like exhausted animals. They felt bottomless. Limitless. You didn’t reach into them so much as disappear into them.
I remember leaning in, arm stretching for a present… and losing my balance. Toppling forward. Falling headfirst into the sack itself, legs flailing uselessly behind me while my sisters laughed. I wasn’t embarrassed. I was delighted. It felt exactly right. As if the gifts weren’t meant to be taken politely… but entered.
That morning exists in my memory not as a sequence of events, but as a feeling. Warmth against cold. Wonder against silence. Belief without caveat.
And that’s the thing about childhood Christmases… belief didn’t need defending. It didn’t need disclaimers or irony or knowing smiles. It simply was.
Which brings us, unavoidably, to now.
The world today doesn’t do magic very well.
We’re efficient. Informed. Connected. We know too much and feel too little. Christmas arrives not on snow-laden silence but in October… piped through supermarkets, reduced to metrics, schedules, expectations and spend.
Children are still given gifts, of course. Sometimes more than ever. But the sense of arrival has dulled. There’s less waiting. Less wondering. Less space for the impossible to sneak in quietly and leave footprints behind.
And for adults… well… we’ve largely stopped believing altogether.
We say the magic has gone, but that’s not quite true. It hasn’t vanished. It’s been displaced.
The magic used to live in the pause… in the unknown… in the feeling that something kind and generous might happen without explanation. Now it lives in nostalgia. In memory. In photos we scroll past too quickly. In stories we half-tell ourselves when the house is quiet and the lights are low.
Could it ever be the same again?
No. And it shouldn’t be.
That kind of magic belonged to a particular moment in time… a particular stage of life… a particular innocence. Trying to recreate it exactly is like trying to step back into a river that’s already moved on.
But here’s the quieter truth… the more hopeful one.
We are not meant to receive that magic forever.
At some point, we’re meant to become the ones who make the footprints.
The ones who go to the effort. Who stays up late. Who thinks about how a small, thoughtful act might lodge itself in someone else’s memory for decades. Who understands that belief doesn’t come from perfection, but from intention.
My father didn’t give me a flawless Christmas.
He gave me a story that still breathes.
And perhaps that’s what Christmas becomes as we age… not a hunt for wonder, but an act of stewardship. Holding the door open just long enough for someone else to glimpse it. Leaving evidence that kindness passed through. That generosity existed. That, for a brief moment, the world was gentler than usual.
The footprints fade. The sacks are emptied. The house grows quiet again.
But somewhere, years later… a man sits remembering snow, silence, talc on the floor… and realises the magic didn’t disappear at all.
It simply learned how to wait.
Until Next Time
This is very quietly powerful.
The way you describe magic not as something lost, but something we’re meant to carry forward, feels true.
Some stories don’t fade — they wait.
— @lintara
This is a great post. It took me back to the magic of my childhood. We had huge dive-able Santa sacks at the foot of the bed as well ... No footprints ... Instead mince pie crumbs on a plate and an empty beer glass.