Dear Santa,
All I want this Christmas is safety.
And soul-affirming sex and world peace.
Men who don’t collapse under the weight of my Cancer Sun, Pisces Rising emotions because they've gotten comfortable expressing their own and learned to love themselves while they do.
I know, Santa, it’s a lot of weight, it’s a lot of water, it’s a tall ask. Maybe we can co-create a class? Begin by brainstorming how to teach grounding and presence using the emotional equivalent of 4-foot waves. After the holidays? Pretty please…
For my sons, I want a more loving, more inclusive world. A world where nothing matters more than loving animals and people. All day, every day, with every single decision, nothing matters more than loving other living beings well.
I want an end to anti-semitism, misogyny, and sexual abuse, and in their place love, freedom, and fearlessness…Santa, can you imagine the beauty?
Can you help me make it happen?
And Santa, I want a book deal.
And, just once before he dies, I want my father to choose me over the cult of masculinity.
What about you, Santa?
What do you want? And how are you, really?
Has the jolly performance gotten old? Are your own desires gathering dust in some workshop corner while you fulfill orders and torture yourself over your ambivalent relationship with Amazon?
Do you even know how you feel under your suit?
Are you tired of being the eternal provider? The one who's had to perform joy for centuries while carrying the weight of everyone's expectations. The one who maybe—just maybe—wants to be seen instead of constantly having to see whose been naughty or nice.
All that judgment has got to be killing you. Dimmi tutto, Santa. I’m listening.
Has being the nice guy, and regularly betraying your own boundaries, given you a miserable cold or something far worse?
Do you want to stop ho-ho-hoing and just… rest? Or rage? Or weep? Or dance badly in your kitchen at 2 am because you finally have five minutes to yourself?
When was the last time someone asked you what you're actually hungry for? What lights you up? What breaks your heart?
Here's what I imagine, Santa:
Maybe you want to take off that suit and feel the cold air on your skin, or better yet, go to Greece for Christmas, stay there, soak up the sun. To hell with the deliveries! The kids have enough stuff! They need a whole Santa! A tan one, with good vitamin C and D stores.
Maybe you want someone to love you when you're grumpy, when the magic is gone, when you've got nothing left to give.
Maybe you want to stop being everyone's father figure and just say f*&ck it! Not in a Grinchy way…in an I love myself enough to know what’s really important way.
Maybe you’re asking when you get to be the boy. OMG, Santa, me too! I mean, if I were a boy…
Maybe you, too, wanted your daddy to choose you, and if that’s the case, man, I’m sorry. I feel you.
Santa, we may not be so different after all.
Whaddya say, Santa? Wanna blow up the wish list?
And write the letters we've been too afraid to write instead—the ones where we stop being good and start being true? Wanna stop performing and start living. Wanna admit we're tired of shrinking and we’re ready to take up the space we've always deserved? Imagine never having to diet again to fit down a chimney or a too-tight pair of velvet pants?
Santa, I think maybe you've been bound up too.
So this Christmas Eve, Santa, I'm asking you to write the real letter.
The one where you ask for what you actually want—the messy, complicated, too-much experiences. The father who chooses you. The lover who doesn't run away when they see themselves in your soul. A life where you don't have to perform to be loved. The permission to rest. The freedom to rage (safely, with no women or children around). The space to just be.
When you free your voice, you free your life. So go on, write it in your journal. Burn it in your fireplace. Send it to me at clementina@clementinacollective.com. Scream it into the void.
I don't care how you do it.
Just write something real.
Stop waiting for someone else to give you permission to want what you really want or not say it or write it out loud because you’re afraid of impossibility or rejection.
The patriarchy silences us all, Santa, you too. My mailbox is open!
With love,
Clementina
P.S. If you're ready to free your voice and write your truth in 2026, I’m opening my books for new students and private clients. E-mail me, and we can explore. Meanwhile, I'm wishing you rushes of love, gratitude, and wonder, and plot twists that help you heal and see clearly. My longest-running internet crush, Lee Harris, recently predicted these, and I'm seeing them everywhere now. I hope you do too. Happy Holidays, my loves.
Oh, and I have a gift for you. I’m putting the finishing touches on it. You’ll get it as soon as my elves and I have it ready.