Landslide: In Defense of Magical Thinking (and ... Hallmark Movies)
I still don’t believe in magical thinking. But I believe in what comes before the plan. Sometimes belief comes before the data. And that’s not delusion—it’s ignition.
Editor’s Note:
This is part of Landslide—a series about the things that shift beneath the surface of the college process. This one’s about what happens when logic alone doesn’t cut it. And yes, it includes small-town snowstorms, curated playlists, and a parent who once said, “What if the next Picasso is out there… and I send him into dentistry?”
I (sometimes) watch Hallmark movies.
Not always ironically. Not always as a hate-watch.
Sometimes, I watch them on purpose.
Sometimes, I turn one on halfway through and try to guess the entire plot in under five minutes.
But let’s be honest: I already know exactly how it ends.
The small-town baker ends up with the ambitious executive. The amnesia resolves. The sleigh bells ring. The workaholic discovers the true meaning of love, community, and hot cocoa.
You don’t watch Hallmark for surprise.
You watch it for hope that doesn’t apologize for itself.
And some weeks—especially in this line of work—hope is what I need more than rigor.
College Admissions Isn’t Always Logical
We like to pretend it is.
We pore over Common Data Sets. We build spreadsheets. We treat it like a science.
And yes—data matters. Institutional priorities are real. So are test score medians, departmental caps, and the mercurial moods of supplemental essay reviewers.
But here’s the thing I’ve learned—especially after another round of soul-searching seniors and spreadsheet-staring parents:
Sometimes you have to believe in something before the evidence shows up.
Sometimes the path doesn’t make sense until you’re already halfway down it.
And that’s where magical thinking comes in.
Enter:Christmas on Cherry Lane
Yes, Spotify’s Christmas on Cherry Lane playlists are essential.
The kind you play on a snowy afternoon while writing holiday cards or staring out the window wondering if your kid’s essay draft is ever going to make sense.
But this time, I’m talking about the movies—four of them now—each set in the same house with totally different stories.
Different families. Different seasons of life.
They don’t know each other.
They don’t live the same lives.
But they’re connected anyway, because they stood in the same kitchen, walked up the same stairs, looked out the same window, and dreamed about what their life could be.
Tell me that’s not college.
Every year, new students apply to the same colleges—walk the same quads, sit in the same info sessions, stare down the same essay prompts—and still, the experience belongs to them.
It’s never the same story twice.
But it’s still the same house.
“What If the Next Picasso Is Out There…”
I once had a parent text me:
“What if he’s the next Picasso … and I send him into dentistry?”
It wasn’t a knock on dentistry (the dad was a dentist).
It was naming the quiet fear we all carry:
What if I steer my kid toward safety—and they miss the thing that could have lit them up?
Magical thinking, in that moment, wasn’t indulgent.
It was necessary.
Because before you can believe in a plan, you have to believe in the kid.
It’s Not the Strategy—It’s the Spark
Look, I’m not saying students should build their whole college list on vibes and holiday music.
I’m not saying everyone gets into Stanford if they manifest hard enough.
But I am saying there’s a place for irrational faith.
The kind that lets a teenager imagine a life they haven’t seen yet.
The kind that gets a first draft written.
The kind that makes space for becoming.
What if I belong there?
What if I could study that?
What if this application opens a door I didn’t even know existed?
Magical thinking isn’t the strategy.
But it can be the spark.
And every good application needs one of those.
Same House. Different Story.
Hallmark movies aren’t smart. But they’re safe.
No one gets ghosted. No one gets deferred. No one submits the FAFSA twice and still gets it wrong.
And for a lot of people, college was once that kind of story.
The one where the plan worked.
Where the stakes were high but the outcome was happy.
Where the story ended with a sweatshirt and a smile.
We hold onto that version because we want it to be true for our kids.
Even if we know better.
Even if we’ve read the forums and seen the odds.
We still want the horse-drawn carriage ending.
Or at least a damn good metaphor for it.
Yes, I’ve Taken a Swing at Magical Thinking Before
I know. In a previous post, very recently, I came for magical thinking hard.
I called it out for masking fear, for delaying hard choices, for keeping students stuck in limbo.
And I still believe that.
Magical thinking isn’t a strategy.
But maybe I was too quick to dismiss the way it begins.
Lately, I’ve seen the quiet power of what happens before the plan.
The moment a kid says, “What if I could?”
That’s not delusion. That’s ignition.
And you can’t build clarity without fire.
Let Them Believe
So yes. I (sometimes) watch Hallmark movies.
I always listen to seasonal playlists.
I believe in the magic of a house that holds more than one story.
You’re allowed to write an application from the version of you who isn’t fully here yet—but who’s getting closer every time you hit “save draft.”
Because sometimes, the improbable is what gets us through the practical.
Sometimes, believing it could work out is what makes us brave enough to try.
And if all else fails?
There’s always Cherry Lane.