on being magic

My earliest memory is of being magic.

I was very young, barely old enough to explain what I wanted, but old enough to believe that if I desired something deeply, I could make it appear. I would ask for what I wanted, wave my magic wand, and poof, there it was, waiting to be discovered.

What I didn’t know then was that my parents were quietly participating in the ritual. They were placing the toy, or some version of it, just out of sight, ready to be found. But that detail doesn’t diminish the magic for me. In fact, it deepens it. Because what stayed with me wasn’t the object. It was the belief.

I believed, without hesitation, that I lived in a world that responded to me. A world where desire wasn’t foolish, imagination wasn’t silly, and wanting something didn’t require justification. I didn’t doubt. I didn’t brace for disappointment. I didn’t hedge my bets or protect my heart. I simply expected magic—and that’s exactly what I experienced.

Somewhere along the way, many of us are taught to put the wand down. We’re encouraged to be realistic. To manage expectations. To prepare for disappointment just in case. Play and imagination get labeled as childish, impractical, indulgent. And slowly, subtly, we shift from openness to guarding, from trust to bracing.

But here’s what I’ve come to believe:

What we expect, rehearse internally, and emotionally prepare for is the version of life we keep calling forward. This isn’t about forcing outcomes or pretending life is always easy. It’s about frequency. When we consistently tune ourselves to scarcity, fear, or resignation, that’s the channel we stay on. When we allow ourselves to tune into abundance, wholeness, freedom, and possibility, something shifts. We experience flow. Synchronicities. Magic and miracles show up on a regular basis.

Play and imagination are not frivolous. They are powerful.

They move us out of survival mode and into creative partnership with life. They invite curiosity instead of control. They remind us what it feels like to want something without shame—and to believe it’s possible without needing proof first.

As a child, I had no doubt I could manifest what I wanted. And so I did.

The invitation now isn’t to return to childish thinking—but to reclaim childlike trust. To remember how it feels to engage life with wonder instead of armor. To ask ourselves not just what do I want? but what am I expecting? What am I emotionally rehearsing? What future am I quietly preparing for?

Magic isn’t about waving a wand. It’s about belief. It’s about emotion. It’s about the stories we tell ourselves and the energy we bring into the asking.

That first memory never left me. It followed me into adulthood as a quiet reminder that we are not separate from the unfolding of our lives. That imagination is not an escape. It’s a doorway. And that play, belief, and openness might be far more essential than we were ever taught.

The wand is still there. The question is whether we’re willing to pick it back up.