For as long as I can remember, my mom told me Halloween was the devil’s holiday. Anyone who celebrated it was not of God, according to my mother. And if I wanted to be of God, I had to reject the holiday altogether.
Hearing my Mom say that felt like mourning someone I’d never met but still felt deeply connected to, like I was missing out on something for me. I loved the idea of Halloween and everything it was about. I loved the pumpkins, the witches, the wizards, the magic of it all. Everything about it made me feel safe and at home.
But growing up, Halloween was strictly off-limits. No costumes. No trick-or-treating. My mom worked long hours and didn’t trust anyone else to take us, and she made it clear that “demonic” movies featuring witches were banned. I’d sneak to watch them, brightness low, heart pounding, feeling like I was the one casting forbidden spells.
At the time, I didn’t understand why I was hurt so much by being denied a holiday. It felt silly, just another kid thing I wasn’t allowed to do. But now I see it wasn’t about costumes or candy. What I wanted and craved was permission to be someone else. To be myself.
Growing up queer in the suburbs of Ohio, in a deeply religious home, was its own kind of horror. I learned early to suppress the parts of me that made others uncomfortable, even as I was taught we’re supposed to love people unconditionally. I didn’t yet have words for queerness or for why I moved through the world differently. I just knew that I didn’t fit.
Horror movies became my sanctuary. The color black, the thrill of being scared — all that made me feel alive when everything else made me feel numb. Fear, when it was fictional, felt safe. I could scream, laugh, and exist freely for once. Halloween — the one day the world encourages transformation — gave me permission to breathe.
It wasn’t until adulthood, and therapy, that I learned another word besides ‘queer’ that made everything click: neurodivergent.
For me, neurodivergence is an umbrella that holds the diagnoses that once made me feel like an outcast: ADHD, Dyscalculia, Bipolar Disorder, Sensory Processing Disorder. Instead of feeling like a puzzle of disorders, I started to see my whole self and learn to fully embrace and love myself. Language has given me a way to understand why I experience the world with such intensity and why I’ve always found comfort in the strange and uncanny.
But accepting that label wasn’t and hasn’t been easy. As a queer, Afro-Latinx, and Indigenous person, every new identity has felt like another box, another way the world tries to shrink me. Still, I’ve learned that claiming language for myself is a kind of freedom. It’s a way of saying: I get to define myself.
Halloween, for me, has always entailed and even celebrated that kind of freedom. It’s the one day where masking — literal or metaphorical — feels like a choice, and not just for survival. It’s when the world finally matches my inner landscape: chaotic, sensory-rich, unapologetically weird.
As a neurodivergent person, Halloween relaxes me in ways I can’t fully explain, and other neurodivergent’s I have met and know feel the same as I do (or, in some cases, they feel the total opposite). It’s always interesting hearing other experiences and perspectives, because we’re all very similar and yet very different but ultimately can understand each other. The glow of candles, the hum of energy in the air, the permission to be theatrical — it’s soothing. It’s a ritual. It’s released.
Every October, I feel my body unclench, and the weight of the world feels a little less heavy. I grieve for the kid who wasn’t allowed to celebrate and honor the adult who finally can, the one who makes up for lost time by watching The Craft on repeat. I carve pumpkins, dress up just for fun, and decorate my space in cobwebs and glitter bats. I write horror stories and movies and attend every horror event I can.
When I light my jack-o’-lantern, I think of the girl who used to press her face to the window, watching other kids run down the street with pillowcases full of candy, and I whisper: You made it, and you are home.
My Mom still doesn’t understand it, and maybe she never will. But I do, and that’s all that matters.
Halloween isn’t the devil’s holiday. It’s a holy one, a sacred night for those of us who were told we were wrong for being who we are, a queer sabbath of softness, self-expression, and spectral joy.
Every mask I wear now brings me closer to who I am and who I want to be.
And every October, I come home to myself again.
“Halloween isn’t the devil’s holiday. It’s a holy one, a sacred night for those of us who were told we were wrong for being who we are, a queer sabbath of softness, self-expression, and spectral joy.”
I loved this part because you’ve captured why this “silly” holiday can mean so much to so many people. I had a very similar upbringing, so I’m right there with you! 🎃