There is a special kind of honesty that only shows up when you are writing a letter to Santa as an adult. You already know the odds. You know the math does not work. And yet, you write it anyway, because sometimes hope is not about feasibility. Sometimes it is about admitting what would actually make life better if the universe decided to be generous for once.
This year, my Christmas list is not about gadgets for bragging rights or things that will collect dust by February. It is about stability, accessibility, creativity, and rest. These are not small wants. They are practical dreams. Big ones. The kind you whisper rather than post on a wish board.
1. A Truly Accessible Home 💲💲💲💲💲
At the top of my list is a home that works for real life.
I take care of my mother, and our current rental was never designed with wheelchairs in mind. Tight hallways, thresholds that might as well be speed bumps, awkward layouts that turn simple tasks into exhausting workarounds. We make it work because we have to, but “making it work” is not the same as living well.
The dream home looks like this:
🏠 At least three bedrooms, because caregiving requires space and privacy
🏠 A single-floor layout, no stairs, no compromises
🏠 Wide doorways and zero thresholds
🏠 An open floor plan that allows movement without constant navigation
🏠 A large kitchen with room to cook, prep, and breathe
🏠 A bathroom large enough for a walk-in tub.
🏠 A proper garage with space to load, unload, and adapt as needs change
This is not a mansion fantasy. It is an accessibility fantasy. A home where safety and dignity are built in, not retrofitted with frustration.
If Santa is listening, this is the one that changes everything.
2. A new Wheelchair-Accessible Van We Can Rely On 💲💲💲💲
Right behind the house is something just as critical: a reliable, wheelchair-accessible van.
Transportation is freedom. It is doctor visits without anxiety. It is errands without logistical puzzles. It is knowing that if something goes wrong, you can get where you need to go without a backup plan for the backup plan.
A dependable accessible van would mean:
🚐 Safe and consistent mobility for my mother
🚐 Less daily stress over breakdowns or limitations
🚐 More independence for both of us
🚐 Fewer moments where a simple outing feels like a risk calculation
This is not about convenience. It is about reliability. Caregiving already comes with enough uncertainty. Transportation should not be part of that equation.
3. A Bambu Lab H2C 💲💲💲
Now we pivot, briefly, from survival to joy.
I love 3D printing. It scratches the part of my brain that needs to build, tinker, prototype, and solve problems creatively. It is equal parts technical and artistic, which is exactly where I thrive.
The Bambu Lab H2C is the ultimate upgrade. Fast, precise, reliable, and powerful enough to turn ideas into reality without constant troubleshooting. It is the machine I dream about when I am stuck fighting limitations instead of creating.
This is not a toy. It is a creative outlet. A way to turn stress into something tangible. A reminder that even when life feels restrictive, imagination does not have to be.
4. Regal Unlimited eCards 💲💲
Movies have always been my reset button.
A year of Regal Unlimited means being able to walk into a theater whenever I need to disappear for two hours. No planning. No justification. Just stories on a big screen, surround sound, and the permission to sit still.
The magic of this gift is not the number of movies. It is the freedom. A bad week can end in a theater seat. A good week can be celebrated the same way. Solo movies, repeat viewings, quiet matinees. A year where entertainment does not require negotiation.
Sometimes self-care looks like therapy. Sometimes it looks like popcorn and previews.
5. A Few Days Away With No Agenda 💲
Finally, the most dangerous wish of all: rest.
Not “productive rest.” Not “rest but also answer emails.” Real time away.
Three days at a quiet bed and breakfast in Vermont. Or a weekend at a casino and spa where time blurs and responsibility waits patiently at home. Somewhere frivolous. Somewhere unnecessary. Somewhere that exists purely for enjoyment.
I want:
A break from measuring my worth by output
A pause from constant responsibility
A reminder that joy does not need justification
Caregiving, creative work, and survival mode have a way of convincing you that rest is indulgent. It is not. It is maintenance.
The Point of the List
I do not expect Santa to deliver a house, a van, a 3D printer, unlimited movies, and a vacation. But writing the list matters.
It clarifies what I value.
It names what would actually reduce stress.
It reminds me that dreaming is not childish, even when the dreams are expensive.
So if Santa happens to be reading, this is my list. And if not, it is still worth saying out loud.