Who They Think We Are… and Who We Choose to Be

My car was broken into again. That’s two times in ten days. No smashed windows, no alarm—just the quiet violation of someone rummaging through my things while the world slept.

The first time, they left everything in disarray but didn’t take anything—probably because there wasn’t anything of value to take. This time, they upped the ante. Drained the battery somehow, so I had to call for a tow. And this time, they left me a gift: a pile of break-in tools, a handful of keys, and a burnt glass pipe—clear evidence of drug use.

One of the keys belongs to a mailbox right here on the property.

Now, maybe that mailbox key belonged to another victim—someone who, like me, was just unlucky. But another thought lingers in the back of my mind: Have I found the perpetrator? Did they break into my car… and unknowingly leave behind a trail that leads right back to them?

I filed a police report, more for the paper trail than out of any expectation. I’ve played this game before. The complex says there’s security at night, but I’ve yet to see a soul. Not even a flashlight beam in the dark.

And here’s the thing—this is the part that stings a little deeper: I want to believe these people are my neighbors. I want Nomad Santa to say that. But I’m struggling.

Part of me wants to shake them by the shoulders and shout, “Can’t you find something better to do with your life?” Another part of me thinks of all the scam calls, the phishing emails, the fake tech support lines targeting seniors (like me). There’s this rising tide of desperation masquerading as hustle.

“Get a job,” people say. But what if your mind is swimming in chemicals? What if your past has anchored you to the bottom? What if your “Sitz im Leben”—your place in life—is a storm-damaged raft drifting with no land in sight?

Homelessness. Addiction. Mental illness. It’s a mess we haven’t figured out yet. A wicked, tangled problem.

And I—Nomad Santa—sit here with a handful of someone else’s keys, wondering what door they no longer open.

I’m angry. But I’m also sad. And maybe a little tired.

But I’m not giving up. Not on my neighbors. Not yet.

This is Nomad Santa, reminding you: In this small world, we’re all neighbors.

“Are you one of those traveling Santas?”

“Yes,” I said. “But this travel gig is my summer job. It’s way too quiet at the North Pole.”

We both laughed. But the moment stayed with me.

I’d just spent four days wrangling computer platforms that wouldn’t recognize me. Wrong login here, misfiled profile there. Somewhere along the way, I’d become the digital version of a mistaken identity.

And it got me thinking… how often are we assigned roles we didn’t choose?

How often do we get cast in someone else’s story — and play along without even noticing?

Over time, I’ve stopped seeing those moments as irritations and started seeing them as invitations. Sometimes the version of us that people respond to isn’t about who we are, but who they need.

That’s how Nomad Santa began.

Not because I claimed the name — but because people gave it to me.
A child in Dublin.
A couple at an airport in Seattle.
A TSA agent with a wink (they aren’t all humorless).
A street vendor in Bangkok who offered a discount and said, “Merry Christmas, boss.” (In the middle of their summer.)

But my very first attempt at being Santa?

That was at a preschool. The parents had all brought gifts in advance — I was just the guy in the red suit handing them out. One by one, I pulled them from the bag… until I reached the bottom, and one little girl was still waiting.

I panicked.

The teacher caught my look and sprinted to the back. I stalled. Told the girl I’d check the sleigh. As soon as I stepped into the hallway, the teacher came running with the only unopened item she could find — a pack of modeling clay, hastily wrapped.

I stepped back into the room and said, “Look what I found!”

The girl’s face lit up. The mother later apologized, embarrassed — she hadn’t known she was supposed to bring a gift.

That day taught me: Santa isn’t about perfection. It’s about presence.
About noticing what’s missing — and doing what you can to make it whole.

I didn’t choose the role. But I’ve come to embrace it.

Because sometimes, when the world gets it “wrong”… it reveals something profoundly right underneath.
Sometimes we can do something about it.
Sometimes we can just be present.

This is Nomad Santa, reminding you: In this small world, we’re all neighbors.