When I was 10 years old, my fourth-grade teacher informed our class that Santa Claus wasn’t real.

You read that correctly. I was in on the hoax for a whole decade, and my teacher, of all people, snapped me out of it.

In his defense, he was not deliberately breaking the spell and he certainly did not set out to break children’s hearts. He was explaining the difference between fiction and nonfiction in language arts, and said something along the lines of, “well you know how for a long time, you all believed that Santa was real?”

I think he expected mostly head nods and snickers. Instead, a handful of 10-year-olds burst into tears.

I was among that crew.

Blushing through my newfound knowledge as other, apparently more mature 10-year-olds rolled their eyes and said, “duh,” I attempted to feign allergies, as if this knowledge hadn’t broken my heart.

Of course, I had my suspicions. Was it really likely that one man delivered presents to every child in the world? But my mom did an excellent job at dispelling any questions my siblings and I had.

“How does he make so many stops in one night?” our curious minds inquired. “There are time zones for a reason,” she would answer.

“How does he afford presents for all those kids?” we would ask, thinking of our rattling piggy banks. But my mom was smarter. “Black Friday sales!” she said.

“But we don’t have a chimney,” we would say suspiciously, to which she would retort, “Santa comes through our front door.”

I remember the guilt on my teacher’s face when he realized we were not all in on the secret, that some of us still believed in the magic of Christmas. I also remember my mother’s face when we told her, which was likely equal parts consternation and relief at being rid of the charade.

Almost two decades later, I find myself missing that 10-year-old girl, mesmerized by the fairy tale I now equate with the Rankin Bass movies I grew up with, but I realize that the magic of Christmas did not completely evaporate with my teacher’s slip. Instead, the older I get, the more I find magic in other places.

For example, no matter what is going on in her life — from physical ailments to the loss of a family member — my mother has never failed to make Christmas special. Every room of her house is decked to the nines in Christmas décor, a different theme for every room, and decorations in every corner. We still open presents at 5 a.m. on Christmas morning, and as her adult children unwrap their gifts, her eyes still twinkle the same way they did when we were children squealing over Barbie dolls and Tonka trucks.

I also see magic through the generosity in our communities. From bell ringers outside Walmart, to coats hung on trees for those less fortunate to borrow in the winter months, there is a special magic in the air as people give of themselves.

I see magic in tradition, whether that means traveling to the home of a loved one you see once per year, volunteering with a specific charity, baking cookies, or going store to store searching for a particular kind of candy you know your sibling loves.

No matter your religious beliefs, the holiday season seems to bring people together, both physically and spiritually.

This time of year, I will forever feel like a 10-year-old child, blissfully caught up in the magic of Christmas.