Growing up, Halloween was…different. My parents were draped in their own chaos, often more interested in the next drink than in their children’s happiness. I’d cobble together costumes from whatever I could find, dreaming of the “real” costumes I saw in store windows but never quite having the chance to wear. My friends’ parents would walk with them, carrying flashlights, chatting with other parents, watching to make sure their kids stayed safe. But I’d walk alone, drifting along in the night with other kids but feeling invisible, knowing there would be no one waiting at the curb for me.
Candy was the real currency on Halloween, but even that felt like it slipped through my fingers. Sometimes, after a night of trick-or-treating, I’d come home to find my mom or dad rummaging through my stash, often taking whatever they wanted or trading me a promise for something I knew they’d forget. Other years, I’d come home to a house in darkness, my pillowcase of candy the only glimmer of the holiday. I didn’t recognize the sadness I felt back then, nor did I understand why it hurt so much to not have anyone looking out for me. I just knew that Halloween wasn’t like it was for other kids.
When I got sober and started my own family, I poured everything I had into making sure my kids felt loved and safe, especially on nights like Halloween. Watching them race up each driveway, full of excitement, I’d smile and cheer them on, all the while pushing down the memories of my own childhood. I thought I’d dealt with the past, but as my kids grew, reaching the same ages I’d been back then, a flood of memories came rushing back. I found myself staring off into the distance, feeling echoes of a loneliness I hadn’t acknowledged in years.
One Halloween, after tucking my kids into bed, I sat alone in the living room, watching the pumpkin lights flicker in the window. The emptiness of my own childhood came roaring to the surface. I couldn’t shake the image of myself as a kid, walking alone, no one there to hold my hand or share my excitement. The weight of those memories became too much to ignore, and I knew I had to confront them.
That’s when I discovered Adult Children of Alcoholics (ACA). It was a place where others understood the hidden scars of growing up with parents lost in addiction, the unseen wounds that continued to shape our lives. In those meetings, I heard stories like mine, stories of hollow holidays, of broken promises, of feeling like we were invisible. For the first time, I felt less alone in the pain that had been buried inside me for so long.
But the journey didn’t stop there. Facing those memories opened up deeper layers of grief and trauma I hadn’t even realized were there. I started working with a therapist specializing in trauma, someone who helped me trace the echoes of my childhood and understand how deeply they had impacted my life. Together, we went back to those Halloweens, those lonely nights when I longed for someone to walk beside me, to keep me safe. I found myself grieving the childhood I’d never had, the comfort and safety I’d been denied.
Eventually, I felt ready to explore psychedelics in a therapeutic setting, hoping to unlock the last layers of buried pain. Those sessions were profound, taking me back to moments I hadn’t thought of in decades, letting me see myself from a new perspective. I began to understand that I wasn’t just grieving the past; I was healing the child I’d been, the one who’d walked through those lonely Halloween nights feeling unseen and unloved.
And as I worked through these memories, something shifted inside me. I could finally stand at the sidewalk with my kids without feeling the old weight pressing down on my chest. I wasn’t haunted anymore. Halloween became a celebration of healing, a time when I could see my children’s joy without the shadow of my own past.
In the end, it was my children, along with trauma work and psychedelics in recovery, that helped me find the wholeness I’d been searching for. They showed me the love and safety I’d never known, and in healing myself, I was able to break the cycle. I became the parent I had always wished for, the one who waited at the sidewalk with open arms and a warm smile, letting my kids know they were never alone.
