the soft magic of now

the soul-level magic of this season of life

Lately I’ve been thinking about magic. Not the kind that takes place under full moons and over bubbling cauldrons—though I think plenty about that kind, too. I’ve been thinking about the magic of youth, and what happens when it fades.

When you’re young—or at least, when I was—everything feels enchanted. Well into my twenties, and even my thirties, life carried an effervescence: a buoyant joy, a near-constant hum of anticipation. A three‑day weekend? I was giddy with possibility. A trip to a new city? I’d practically bounce onto the plane. Buying a new home meant months spent designing every room in my mind. And Christmas—Christmas made me glow for six weeks straight, lit by twinkling tree lights and set to a soundtrack of carols and beloved holiday films. Even the crowds delighted me. I shopped Black Friday weekend, reveling in the season’s electricity as I happily hunted for gifts.

It was in this spirit of holiday magic that I planned a December weekend in Manhattan. Cozy memories of Christmases past guided every reservation and careful choice. Growing up in upstate New York, I spent many December weekends in the city, and I longed to recreate the wonder I remembered so vividly. New York at Christmas was, in my mind, a dreamscape: dazzling window displays, holiday shows, ice skaters tracing circles in Central Park, the scent of chestnuts roasting, the snap of cold air against pink cheeks. I was certain this trip would deliver the same feeling—that I would tuck away another magical Christmas weekend for safekeeping.

But that’s not what happened.

On paper, the weekend was lovely. A scenic train ride into the city. La Bohème at the Met. A few quiet hours wandering MoMA and the Morgan Library. Shopping, sightseeing, glowing holiday displays. We ducked into warm, bustling restaurants for drinks. We walked for miles; the city crackled with its familiar energy. All the elements were there—but they didn’t cohere into the experience I remembered.

Riding the train home, I turned this question over in my mind: where had the magic gone? The weekend’s quiet flatness came from many places at once. I am older now. After forty‑seven years, fewer things feel brand‑new. The world feels perpetually on fire. Crowds no longer invigorate me; they grate. And yet, this cynicism doesn’t quite fit who I am. What revealed itself instead was a gentler truth: I’ve moved from the exuberant magic of youth into the softer, embodied magic of midlife.

Life now is no less magical—it is simply magical in different, less obvious ways. Discovering art that brings me to tears feels transcendent. Country roads touch a place inside me that cities never could. Healing old wounds and meeting myself at a soul‑level feels like a superpower. Solo dates in quiet bistros and echoing museums feel like falling in love. Sitting alone in a kayak as the sun rises over still water—magic. This is a kind of magic that wasn’t available to me when I was young, or perhaps one I didn’t yet have the capacity to recognize. It isn’t flashy, but it is profoundly stirring.

I still feel wistful, at times, for the unbridled joy of youthful enchantment. Life felt simpler then—lighter, easier—and I know those days have passed. I don’t know if I’ll ever fully recapture that old Christmas spirit. And somehow, quietly, that feels okay.

If youth was the season of bright lights, then this is the season of embers—warm, enduring, and no less miraculous. Magic no longer bursts; it gathers. It pools in the corners of ordinary days, humming softly, waiting for me to notice. And I do notice. With a gratitude that feels almost holy, I realize how lucky I am to have lived long enough to sense this quieter current—to feel wonder settle into the body rather than race through it. This, too, is enchantment. Just a different kind. The quiet magic of now feels like a blessing I wouldn’t have understood a decade ago. But I understand it now.

Glowing in ink & ember,
Kelley