The Christmas Wish That Made Santa Cry—Twice, or Perhaps Even More...

I remember one particular Christmas in Hong Kong in 2009. The city sparkled with festive lights, and the air was filled with the magic that only December in Asia can bring. It was one of those moments that I had wished for. I used to love Christmas in Hong Kong, and I looked forward to their annual Christmas beverages. I had secretly hoped I would be around for this one. It was Timothy's first Christmas, Corey's second, and Jake's fourth.

I sipped at Starbucks, one of the few coffee options I had in Hong Kong at the time. They were serving their annual gingerbread lattes. The Pacific Place Shopping Centre did not disappoint with its yearly decorations either. The kids could hardly wait!

My boys—just 7 months, 2 years, and 4 years old—and I stood in line, waiting for our turn with Santa. I wore a bright red smile, my lipstick a bold contrast against my bald head and puffy, steroid-filled face. I had decided long before that day: I was still here, I was going to live—visibly, boldly, and unapologetically alive.

.

Santa greeted us warmly, wrapping us in a hug that felt like a moment of stillness amid the chaos I was experiencing. He leaned down and listened as my boys made their innocent Christmas wishes, and then he turned to me.

There was a hesitation—a moment of understanding in his twinkling eyes. "And what about you?" he asked gently.

With every ounce of honesty and hope I had left, I replied, "If any miracles are available this Christmas, I would like my health back."

Santa froze. His breath hitched, his twinkle faltered, and for a moment, he was just a man who knew that Christmas magic could not grant every wish. He hugged me tightly, longer than he had hugged the children, as if he were trying to pour something unspoken into that embrace.

Then, he took an early break that day.

That was only the beginning of our story.

✨ Five Years of Hope, One Photo at a Time ✨

In Hong Kong, a tradition unlike any other unfolds each Christmas. At Pacific Place in Admiralty, where the season shimmers with storybook magic, they don’t just bring decorations and festivities—they bring back the same Santa from Britain year after year.

For five years, we returned through moments of hope, resilience, and quiet miracles. Each visit was captured in a single photograph yet held a lifetime of meaning—a journey woven into the twinkle of Santa’s eyes, the warmth of an embrace, and the quiet understanding that some wishes go beyond Christmas.

The following Christmas, I returned, and Santa recognised me immediately. But this time, his twinkle held something heavier. “My sister is going through cancer too,” he told me. At that moment, we were not just Santa and a mother with her three young boys. We were two people bound by the weight of understanding, knowing what watching someone fight for their life means.

The year after, I returned. This time, Santa’s sister had passed away. His eyes shimmered with loss, and when we took our Christmas photo together, it was not just a photo—it was a reminder that time is a gift, that we do not stay the same, and that life moves forward, whether we are ready or not.

By the third, fourth, and fifth Christmas, our annual photo together had become a tradition of hope. Cancer taught me a truth I could never unlearn: If you have good health, you are wealthy. Healing does not begin only with medicine—it starts with gratitude, joy, and the belief that the future is worth stepping into. Every Christmas, I was not just taking a photo; I envisioned my future self alive in the next one.

Then came 2012—the year of another goodbye. One that made Santa cry.

After five years of hope, dreams, and that first impossible wish, it was time to say goodbye. I stood before Santa one last time, feeling a little nervous, my heart full of words I didn’t know how to say. But I didn’t have to. He already knew.

“This is our last Christmas together, isn’t it?” he asked, his voice catching in his throat.

I nodded. I was moving back to Australia.

We had shared five Christmases, five snapshots of hope, five moments where we promised to meet again—and now, here we were, in a goodbye neither of us had prepared for.

As we embraced for the last time, Santa cried again. But this time, those were not the tears of a man hearing a mother’s impossible wish. They were the tears of someone who had watched that mother beat the odds.

My Christmas miracle had been heard.

I have my health back. I have my life back. I wake up every day grateful, throwing off the covers, opening the curtains, and proclaiming to the universe:

“I am here. I am healed. I am healing. I am grateful. I believe in miracles. And I will never take a single moment for granted.”

Personal Reflection: What story are you still holding onto?

Is it one of pain or possibility? Of endings or new beginnings?

As you pause to reflect, can you find gratitude in the lessons, love in the journey, hope in the unfolding, grace in the imperfections, and forgiveness—for yourself and others—as a gateway to a miracle?