Los Reyes in Málaga: A Letter to New Beginnings

While much of Europe tightens its coat buttons, Málaga exhales. The sun lingers like a lover who won’t go home yet. Not even if it’s January.

The streets have taken off the glitter of December, and the tourist chatter has softened just enough for the city to ask:

“Okay. Now tell me the truth. How are you, really?”

And maybe January is the most honest month.
It’s the month where we look back at what we tried, what we carried longer than we meant to, what we whispered yes to, and what we outgrew.

But most of all, January is the month of potential — the filling, humming energy of new beginnings. Anything is possible now. We’re authors staring at the blinking cursor of page one.

What stories will we write this year?

And right when some of us might feel the temptation to overthink, over-work, and hustle our way through our yearly goals, there pass the laughing gulls.

How lucky are we to live in a city where even the birds laugh their way around the sky, circling the port as a living reminder that life was never meant to be so serious.

They tilt their heads back, shriek their ridiculous joy, and refuse to take anything — not even January — too seriously.

And then… Los Reyes arrived.

January in Málaga has a secret sparkle: just when you think the story of the holidays has ended, the city flips the page and says, “Not yet.”

And on the night of January 5th, Málaga becomes a living heartbeat of magic.

If you’ve never witnessed it, let me tell you: The entire city becomes six years old.

Children don’t simply hope for magic here. They expect it. As confidently as dawn expects the sun.

For those who didn’t grow up with it: Los Reyes Magos is the night children write letters to the Three Kings, carefully listing their wishes, their hopes, their efforts to be good this year. They leave water for the camels, sweets for the Kings, and go to sleep knowing that by morning, if all goes well, their gifts will be waiting. It’s not treated as a story here, but as a lived truth, a ritual of trust between a child and life itself.

This year, I stood on Calle Larios as the procession approached—Melchor, Gaspar, Baltasar. Drums rolling like enchanted thunder. Dancers erupting in joy. Confetti falling like benevolent snow. Children reaching out with open arms for flying candies.

And beside me stood a little girl holding a thin paper crown in both hands with such reverence you’d think she had been entrusted with the moon.

She looked up at her father, eyes wide, and whispered:

“Papá… ¿tú crees que se acuerdan de mi nombre?”​
(Dad… do you think they remember my name?)

He didn’t laugh. He didn’t hesitate. With absolute certainty, he replied:

“Claro que sí. Los Reyes siempre saben.”​
(Of course they do. The Reyes always know.)

And you should have seen her face.

Of course they remembered her.
Of course she was known.
Of course she was supported.
Of course the universe would not forget her name or her dreams.

The scene reminded me how, as adults, that certainty is what we too often forget. How we begin to feel like we must carry the weight of the world alone.

Like there isn’t a greater intelligence quietly arranging things in our favor. Like challenges weren’t placed on our path for growth, like they aren’t part of the beauty of this cosmic dance.

The moment stretched in time. The girl’s smile of recognition. As if the dancers paused mid-ribbon because a child had just remembered her divinity.
That she mattered. That her dreams mattered too.

And isn’t that what love feels like? Not fireworks or perfection or certainty.

But that gentle opening in the chest when you know that you are loved and supported. That you belong. That magic has not forgotten your name.

That you are seen and your desires are taken seriously.

So if I could wish one thing for all of us this year, it would be this: the confidence of Málaga’s children on Los Reyes.

May we not simply hope for magic but expect it, as confidently as dawn expects the sun. May we remember we are supported every step of the way. That we don’t need to do more to be worthy. We just need to allow more, and to pause and notice all the good that's already there and we've begun taking for granted.

Los Reyes isn’t really about gifts. It’s about reintroducing you to the part of yourself that still dares to believe goodness is on its way. The part that trusts life is hiding a surprise behind its back, smiling. The part that suspects, in the most innocent and courageous way, that things are working out in your favor, even when you forget.

May you keep the brave, childlike belief that magic is still coming for you. Because even the laws of physics seem to agree: what we deeply believe comes true.

Love from Málaga,​
​Val