Yellow Shoe Diaries — December in Aspen

For the past two nights I have been living someone else’s legend.

Not a role, not a character, not a costume — but a myth wearing red velvet and gold trim. I was Santa Claus at Mile Hi Church in Lakewood and then at the stunning St. Regis Hotel in Aspen, Colorado. Two community spaces, miles apart in tone and temperature — one filled with families sharing laughter and cocoa, the other lined with marble floors, fireplaces, and snow drifting past windows like a postcard — yet the experience was identical in its impact on my heart.

Because Santa’s reputation always walks into the room before the actor does.

You cannot earn the awe of a child the way Santa can. You don’t build it with clever lines or polished blocking. You don’t rehearse it into existence. It arrives fully formed on their faces the moment they see you. Their eyes widen, their posture straightens, their belief surrounds you like a halo made of pure imagination.

And so there I was — the man beneath the beard — watching something ancient and sacred happen right in front of me. A small child looks up, and for one moment, they truly believe that this world is large enough for magic. They believe that someone powerful and kind knows their name. They believe that giving is a superpower. And all of it is happening because I agreed to zip up a suit, smile warmly, and invite them to sit on my knee.

That responsibility is enormous. And it arrived without warning.

I thought I was accepting a gig — you know, an actor’s adventure — a fun event, a little improvisation, some “Ho-Ho-Ho” muscle memory, and a chance to make families happy. I’ve performed for decades, in front of audiences large and small, and nerves are just part of the routine. But I wasn’t prepared for the weight of what it means to hold a child’s belief in your hands. It’s different than applause. It’s deeper than approval.

Because when children look at Santa, they don’t see me.
They see the idea.
The story.
The miracle.

Playing Santa requires an actor to disappear — completely. Every instinct of ego, every need for personal validation melts away, and you become something that belongs to everyone in the room. It’s the most selfless performance I’ve ever given, and oddly, the most fulfilling. The reward is immediate and unspoken: a wide grin, a whisper of a Christmas wish, a tiny hug around my neck, a giggle from behind the beard.

I expected to give Christmas cheer. I didn’t expect Christmas to pour back into me.

Somewhere between Denver and Aspen — somewhere on icy mountain roads, somewhere between greeting the hundredth child and the thousandth flash of a phone camera — something unexpected happened. I started to understand Santa Claus not as a character, but as a responsibility that thousands of performers before me have carried with quiet dignity. Men and women I’ve never met, who sat in countless malls and churches and hotel lobbies and orphanages, patiently building memories for families they will never see again.

And last night, I finally understood them.

The applause doesn’t matter. There is no curtain call.
Just belief.

And that belief — from children who haven’t yet learned how expensive the world can be — is a gift I didn’t know I needed. Their faith in wonder reminded me that the holidays are not about nostalgia or performance; they are about shared imagination. About choosing kindness. About recognizing that magic doesn’t require proof — it requires participation.

So if you see a Santa in a lobby, or at your church, or in line at a community event — understand what’s happening in front of you. Someone has agreed to carry a myth on their shoulders for a night, simply so your child can keep believing in joy.

And I am proud — humbled — to have joined their ranks.

I thought I was going to play Santa Claus.
But somewhere in the laughter and the snow and the whispered wishes — Santa Claus played me.

And it was beautiful.

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