When I was a small child, I was the type of kid that believed wholeheartedly in magic. I would often take refuge from the stress of the ‘real world’ up in my room or outside brandishing a wand (a twig), sporting a wizard’s robe (blanket), and carrying one of the fabulous Harry Potter books. With these combined with my eager imagination, I could delve deeply into the depths of the wizarding world and explore my fantasies to the heart’s content.

Sad though it may seem, I really did believe in magic. I wasn’t ashamed of it though, for I was confident that I would soon receive my envelope admitting me into Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. I would be whisked away, with the scent of adventure filling my nose, from all of my petty problems and cruel peers to a wonderful world where my wildest dreams would take the place of harsh reality.

So I waited. I waited, sometimes planning what I would do with my life once I was unveiled to be a wizard. I waited, barely daring to imagine the bliss I would feel when the owl would swoop in with a letter of parchment tied to its leg. And I waited, starting to worry that maybe I wasn’t a wizard after all. And I waited, with the looming possibility that there was no magic peering around my wishes and imaginations.

As you’re probably predicting, the inevitable happened. The year came and went when I was supposed to receive the invitation. With the disappearance of that letter came the disappearance of all of my hope. Filled with a bit of fresh apathy, I continued my life leaving behind that dead dream that had lifted me up and then dropped me.

And soon, the dream was forgotten.

But as I grew up in a world with no spells or quidditch, as I was raised without wand or flying broomstick, as I became accustomed to there being no dragons or unicorns, I realized something. Magic did exist. Maybe it didn’t appear in the form that I had pictured while reading the Harry Potter series, but it was definitely there.

It sometimes showed itself when I was listening to a symphony of beautiful music. It surprised me every time I looked outside at night and saw the great moon and myriad of stars. It comforted me in the form of loyal friends or caring family. It said hello as I witnessed moments of extreme kindness or affection and twinkled in my tears as I dwelled on them. It resided in places of remotest nature and utmost sacredness. Magic was joy. Magic was love. Magic was music. Magic was hope. Magic was God.

So I became content once again. True, I did not live as I had imagined since I was so very young and wistful for a world that I would never reach. But I had found the world as it truly is, and found it to be a hundred times more fulfilling. For magic is real, and magic is here.