Ballet, Tulle & Holiday Magic

Every December, as the air turns crisp and carols hum faintly from shop windows, a familiar magic stirs within me — one stitched together by tulle, music, and memory. For nearly three decades, The Nutcracker has been more than a holiday performance in our family. It’s been a love letter to tradition, a quiet passage of time between mother and daughter, and a thread of enchantment woven through our lives — from the first act to the final curtain call, where tradition holds us close, and memories drift softly, like snow beneath the stage lights.

Our journey began in London. My daughter was just four — wide-eyed, limbs still learning the gentle discipline of ballet, endlessly fascinated by the elegant swirl of dancers on stage. We sat in velvet seats beneath the golden dome of the Royal Opera House, her little hand tucked in mine, eyes locked on Clara and her Nutcracker Prince. I remember glancing down at her profile, the soft light from the stage casting shadows on her round cheeks, and realizing something sacred was being born between us — a tradition rooted in movement and music, held steady by love.

And so, each year after, we found our way back to The Nutcracker — not always to the same theater, or even the same country, but always back.

Packing into our car each December with dresses, coats, and candy wrappers tucked between the pages of the program. We drove through snow and sun, chasing the curtain’s rise — from the grand stages of New York and Salt Lake City to the cheerful bustle of Atlanta, the cozy theaters of Nashville, and small towns quietly tucked off the interstate.

We’ve sat beneath chandeliers in Manhattan, walked bundled and breathless through frosty sidewalks in Salt Lake, sipped cocoa in Nashville, and marveled at Atlanta’s holiday sparkle dressed in our festive best.

But Omaha, Nebraska, holds a place unlike any other. Perhaps the city doesn’t boast the grandeur of Lincoln Center or Covent Garden, but every December, it was our most beloved stage. Why? Because Mother Ginger — usually a comedic interlude in Act II — on Saturdays is performed by a local male celebrity in full drag. The audience, in on the tradition, waits with eager delight for the moment she teeters onstage, her outrageous skirt hiding a parade of tiny dancers. Laughter peals through the auditorium, never failing to bring down the house. Those Omaha performances were our favorites — joyful, irreverent, deeply local, and entirely unforgettable. It’s riotous, brilliant, and somehow always felt like home.

Over time, our family has grown. In recent years, my daughter-in-law has joined us on our Nutcracker pilgrimage. The first year she came, I was nervous — hopeful she would feel the magic we had carried for so long. But fate had its own plans: that performance, in a major city I won’t name (Atlanta), had reimagined The Nutcracker into something modern, fragmented, and unsettling. The story was barely recognizable. Clara was a shadow of herself, the Sugar Plum Fairy danced to silence, and the whole production felt… hollow.

She sat beside me, quiet.

I sat beside her, heart sinking.

“I hated having her first experience be my worst,” I confessed to my daughter later that night. I felt like I’d broken something fragile. Our tradition had always held joy — and now it trembled. But the next year in Nashville, the curtain rose on a traditional Nutcracker, full of grace, continuity, and elegance. It restored us. The waltzing snowflakes returned. The toy soldiers marched with purpose. Clara dreamed again, and we dreamed with her. As the orchestra swelled, I looked down the row at both of them — my daughter and daughter-in-law — and knew the thread had been tied once more.

Now, each December, we plan our trip — a map of memories drawn in road miles and stage lights. We share hotel rooms, compare holiday windows, sip festive drinks during matinee intermissions. We laugh at the same scenes, cry during the pas de deux, snap photos in front of every twinkling tree we find, and marvel at how even the smallest towns make room for this ageless fairytale.

And someday — if life is kind — I dream of a fourth seat beside us. A grandchild’s wonder-struck face reflecting the lights of the stage. A new pair of hands to hold. A new heart to fill with snow queens and sugar plums. A third generation swept into the music, the story, the magic.

The Nutcracker is not just a performance. It’s how we remember the years. It’s how we measure time. It’s a love letter we keep writing — to tradition, to travel, and to each other.

And every year, as Clara takes that final bow, I find myself whispering a quiet thank you — to the music, to the journey, and to the girl who grew up beside me in velvet seats.

Wonder doesn’t fade. It waits for us — just behind the velvet curtain.