Sealed with a Wish
 (1) - Софья Дулькина.jpg "Sealed with a Wish")
December in Moscow is a test of endurance. As the notorious winter session reaches its peak, the city transforms into a paradox: it is simultaneously the most festive place on earth and the most stressful environment imaginable for a university student. The lights on Nikolskaya Street glitter, but the average HSE student only sees them reflected in the screen of a laptop while frantically memorizing exam tickets or finalizing a term paper. We measure our lives in deadlines, GPA calculations, and the remaining battery percentage.
In this atmosphere of high-stakes academic pressure, where pragmatism is the highest virtue, the idea of engaging in this magic usually feels obsolete - something discarded along with childhood toys and the belief that snow is fun rather than a logistical nuisance. Yet, this year, living in the quiet, snow-buried district of Izmailovo, I felt a sudden, irrational impulse to reject that cynicism. I found myself searching for a pen and a clean sheet of paper, driven by a desire to participate in the "Winter in Moscow" project. I was going to write a letter to Ded Moroz, and I was going to do it without a shred of irony.
There is a pervasive stigma that once one receives a student ID card, the door to childhood wonder is firmly locked. We are told that writing letters to a mythical kind grandfather in Kuzminki is a pastime for toddlers, or at best, an activity parents perform for their children. But this perspective is fundamentally flawed. If anyone needs a symbol of unconditional benevolence and the hope of a fresh start, it is not the six-year-old whose biggest worry is a broken toy; it is the twenty-year-old student trying to navigate the complexities of adulthood, economic uncertainty, and the crushing weight of academic expectations. Writing to Ded Moroz in adulthood is not an act of regression; it is an act of reclaiming hope. It is a moment of pause, a therapeutic exercise in articulating what we truly lack - not material goods, but peace, resilience, and clarity.
The physical act of crafting the letter became a welcome distraction from the monotony of revision. I didn't just grab a scrap of notebook paper - I turned the process into a small, personal art project. Scavenging my desk for forgotten colored pens and a stray sheet of high-quality printer paper, I found myself channeling a dormant artistic side that usually gets crushed under the weight of courseworks. In university, our creativity can be confined within the rigid borders of Times New Roman and strict citation styles. Decorating this letter - doodling intricate, if slightly lopsided, snowflakes in the margins and using a red marker for the header - felt like a rebellion against the digital efficiency that rules our lives. This wasn't just about making the letter look presentable for the wizard; it was a rare exercise in unstructured expression. It reminded me that before I was a student analyzing data, I was a person who enjoyed creating something beautiful for the sake of it - a vital creative muscle that the relentless pace of the winter session often forces us to neglect. The most important thing is to be able to combine the creativity of your inner child with the responsibilities of a student.
Living in Izmailovo gave me a distinct advantage in this quest. While students in the dorms of Dubki or downtown apartments have to plan a logistical operation to find green space, I simply had to step out of my front door. For me, Izmailovsky Park is not just a destination; it is my backyard, a silent, sprawling neighbor that absorbs the noise of the city. According to the recent announcement on the official website of the Mayor of Moscow, the city has significantly expanded the "New Year's Mail" project this season. Over 150 special mailboxes have been installed across city parks - nearly three times more than in previous years - and decorated in the vibrant "Winter in Moscow" branding. The news specifically noted that while standard boxes are everywhere, the grandest, most prominent ones are located in select major parks, including the Olympic Village, Landscape Park Mitino, and, fortunately for me, Izmailovsky Park.
The walk to the park became a transition between worlds. Leaving my apartment block, the gray slush of the streets gave way to the pristine, white paths of the forest. Izmailovo has a unique character; it lacks the frantic, crowded energy of Gorky Park. It is ancient and heavy with silence. Walking past the frozen ponds and the skeletal outline of the Ferris wheel, the anxiety of the upcoming exams began to dissipate, replaced by the crisp, biting air. I wasn't just walking to a mailbox; I was walking away from the noise.
Writing the letter itself proved to be the most challenging part of the ritual. Sitting at my desk earlier that morning, pushing aside notes on macroeconomics, the blank page had stared back at me accusingly. What does an adult ask from a winter wizard? As children, we asked for specific, tangible things: a Lego set, a bicycle, a puppy. As a student, immediate desires are distressingly practical - a passing grade, cheaper rent, more hours in the day. But writing those down felt like a waste of magic. The Mayor’s office press release noted a fascinating trend: while children send drawings and ask for gadgets, adults increasingly use this service to write about "dreams, feelings, and hopes." This gave me permission to be vulnerable. I realized that there is no shame in admitting that we are tired. I wrote not about gifts, but about the need for strength to finish the year without losing myself. I wrote about the health of my family, about the desire for a calm winter, and for the ability to find joy in small things despite the stress. I carefully folded the paper and checked the return address. The instructions are strict: if one wants a reply from the Moscow Residence, the index and address must be legible. There was a strange thrill in writing my own Izmailovo postal code, sending a physical object out into the world in an era where all our communication is digital and ephemeral.
When I finally located the box near the central square of the park, it was unmistakable. It wasn't the standard blue Russian Post box; it was a bright, stylized container featuring the "Winter in Moscow" logo and snowflakes. The reports mentioned that a special team of "Snowmen-postmen" manages the logistics, driving a dedicated van to collect the correspondence daily and deliver it to the residence in Kuzminki. Standing there, holding my envelope, I hesitated. A few families were nearby, parents lifting toddlers to the slot. For a second, the impostor syndrome kicked in. Was I too old for this? Was I taking up space meant for children? But then I watched a couple, clearly in their sixties, approach the box. They weren't holding a child's drawing; they were holding a thick, elegant envelope of their own. They dropped it in with a smile, unbothered by the gaze of others.
That moment validated my entire journey. The "New Year's Mail" is not a service for children; it is a service for dreamers, and dreaming has no age limit. The official statistics state that last year, 65,000 letters were sent. With the new boxes in parks like mine, that number will likely double. It is a staggering thought: a mountain of paper containing the collective hope of a city. The administration has promised that the campaign will run until January 15th, ensuring that even the chronic procrastinators among the student body have time to participate.
Walking back home through the darkening avenues of Izmailovo, the path illuminated by the warm, yellow glow of the streetlamps, I felt lighter. The exam stress hadn't vanished; the deadlines were still waiting on my desk. But the act of articulating my hopes and physically sending them away had broken the cycle of anxiety. I wasn't just a stressed student; I was a participant in a city-wide tradition of optimism. The snow began to fall again, dusting the path to my building. I realized that the magic isn't in the wizard or the reply I might receive in a month. The magic is in the act itself - the deliberate choice to believe, even for just an hour, that the magic old man is listening to us. For any HSE student currently feeling the weight of the winter, I recommend this pilgrimage. We are never too old to wish for something better!
Shared by
Sonya Dulkina
