Passing the Magic: Evolving Family Traditions as Our Children Grow

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There’s a quiet shift that happens as your children get older.

The magic doesn’t disappear — it changes hands.

Where once you were the sole keeper of the mystery, the maker of the moments, the architect of the enchantment… suddenly, you’re inviting your children behind the curtain. And instead of spoiling the magic, something far more powerful happens.

It deepens.

As my kids grow, I’ve felt called to let them participate in the creation of Christmas magic rather than just receiving it. This year, that’s looked like inviting the oldest two to help fill the advent calendar with surprises, take turns hiding the Elf on the Shelf, and collaborate in keeping the spirit of the season alive.

There’s something beautiful about saying:
You’re not just part of the magic — you are the magic.

I’ve written before about how ritual and routine nourish children — how repetition builds safety, creativity, and a sense of belonging. I still believe this deeply. Traditions ground children in something steady when the world feels loud and fast.

But as children mature, traditions can also become tools for self-trust, intuition, and co-creation.

Which brings me to our newest tradition…

This year, we began a new holiday ritual that feels like a bridge between childhood wonder and spiritual initiation.

From Christmas Eve through the next thirteen nights, we’ve been working with an oracle deck called 13 Sacred Nights by Lara J Day — a practice aligned with the rhythms of nature and the turning of the year.

Each night corresponds to a month in the coming year (with the first night holding the energy of the entire year ahead). Together, we draw cards — animals, herbs, and crystals — and sit with what Spirit might be inviting us into.

It’s a slow, intentional practice that's teaching my children something no planner or resolution list ever could: that life is cyclical, intuitive, and guided — and that they have a relationship with that guidance.

Modern holiday culture is loud, fast, and overflowing with stuff. And while there’s nothing wrong with gifts or celebration, I feel more called each year to emphasize meaning over momentum.

Less rushing.
More presence.
Less doing.
More being.

We still bake (oh, do we bake!)
We still craft, feast, wander, and gather.
But now there’s an added layer — one of reverence.

Christmas isn’t something that just happens.
It’s something we tend, together.

What I’m learning, year after year, is this:

The traditions our children remember most won’t be the biggest events or the most expensive moments. They’ll be the repeated rituals that told them:

You belong here.
You matter.
We do this together.

As our children grow, may we let traditions grow too —
passing the light, hand to hand, heart to heart.