Healing in Costume: The Halloween I Came Alive
Like many, once the weather turns cold and the sky grows gray, I struggle. My soul feels like a caged bird locked away in the dark. I dread the thought of working, coming home, and doing nothing but “hibernating” in front of the television.
My spirit comes alive in the sunshine — in movement, laughter, and the company of people who are actually living. I think that’s why, once I was on my own, Halloween quietly became my favorite holiday.
Sure, I love Christmas and Thanksgiving, but for different reasons. Those are times of togetherness and family — warmth that smells like cookies in the oven and hot chocolate in your favorite mug.
But Halloween?
That one’s mine.
It’s the one night a year when playfulness returns — when you can step into another self, even for a moment, and remember what freedom feels like. It’s the night the bird gets to leave the cage.
The Year I Needed a Costume
At 37, I went to my first adult Halloween costume party. It had been one year since my divorce was final, and I was somewhere between surviving and rebuilding — trying to “find myself,” though I didn’t really know what that meant yet. Something in me was restless — desperate to create, to feel, to be.
This party, this costume — it lit my spirit on fire. It became part of what I now call my bad bitch phase — the time I carried a chip on my shoulder and swore I’d never let anyone make me feel small again.
I wanted a costume that screamed diva — strength, control, and unapologetic power. So I chose Ursula.
And no, this wasn’t some store-bought, last-minute costume. This was my first real chance at expression — freedom stitched into fabric. I spent hours on Pinterest, scanning ideas, experimenting with tentacle forms and makeup, and enlisted the help of my sister-in-law’s sewing skills to bring it to life.
When I finally put it on, I looked in the mirror and thought, Yes. For the first time in years, I felt beautiful, creative, and powerful.
It wasn’t just a costume. It was a reclamation — of confidence, of joy, of self.
Pulling it off was deeply satisfying. It wasn’t about perfection; it was about pride. And that feeling — that spark — was something I hadn’t allowed myself to feel in far too long.
The Night I Came Alive
I don’t remember what song was playing or what I ate. I remember the way the night air felt when I stepped outside after — cold and alive, like my skin had woken up.
Somewhere between the laughter and the music, I stopped thinking. I stopped guarding. I just moved — messy, loud, alive.
I danced like no one was watching, and for the first time in a long time, I didn’t care if they were. It wasn’t about attention or proving anything. It was about feeling again — joy, power, freedom.
Looking back, that night wasn’t reckless; it was necessary. It was the moment I let myself be too much, too loud, too alive — and realized that’s exactly what I’d been missing.
Healing and the Fire You Keep
Maybe that’s what healing sometimes looks like. Not sitting quietly with your thoughts, not always journaling or meditating — but getting dressed up, stepping out, and letting your wildness breathe again.
Maybe sometimes, the path back to yourself is lined with glitter and tentacles.
That night wasn’t just a costume party — it was a resurrection. The smallest acts of joy are often the first signs of return — when your spirit remembers what it feels like to be free. That night, I wasn’t the version of me still crawling out of survival. I wasn’t the woman who played it safe to keep the peace. I was the woman who showed up — in costume, in color, in courage.
When Escape Becomes Healing
Since then, I’ve gone to Halloween salsa parties as a skeleton, a scarecrow, and an 80’s girl. Each one fun in its own way. But that first year — that first transformation — will always be sacred. It was a taking back, an owning of who I am.
I don’t chase that exact feeling anymore. I’ve learned something since then. That’s the difference between healing and escape.
Chasing the feeling is escape — the attempt to recreate intensity when what you really need is peace. It’s the quick fix that can slide into habits, distractions, even addiction. Healing, though — that’s slower. It asks questions. It makes you pause and listen.
It asks: Where did that feeling come from? What was it showing me that I’d ignored? What do I actually need to move forward?
If joy leaves you emptier than before, that’s not healing — that’s avoidance. But when joy grounds you, softens you, brings light instead of noise — that’s when you know you’re coming home to yourself.
Now, I find that aliveness in smaller ways — a good song, a loud laugh, a bright color. But every October, when the light fades early and the air sharpens, I feel that caged bird start to stir again — a reminder that even in the dark, there’s still room for flight.
Author’s Note:
Healing doesn’t always whisper. Sometimes it struts.
Sometimes the softest thing you can do for yourself is to let your power be seen — even if it’s purple and wearing seashells.
