This Halloween, I'm Choosing Compassion

Before anything else, I want to say this: I’ve always loved the magic of Halloween. There’s something nostalgic about chilly October nights, the glow of carved pumpkins, and the echo of laughter down neighbourhood streets. But over the years, I’ve noticed something else too—something quieter and not always as kind. I’ve seen judgment dressed up as humour, impatience hidden behind fake smiles, and criticism passed out faster than candy. Somewhere along the way, some people forgot that Halloween isn’t a competition for the best costume or the loudest personality—it’s about joy, community, and togetherness.

I don’t want to just celebrate Halloween—I want to honour its spirit. And for me, that looks a lot like compassion.

Not Every Costume Tells a Full Story

When a child walks up to your door without a costume, it’s easy to assume they’re lazy, uninterested, or ungrateful. But what if that child has sensory challenges and can’t stand the feeling of certain fabrics on their skin? What if their family couldn’t afford a costume this year? What if they simply didn’t feel comfortable dressing up because they’re shy or anxious?

It might just look like a T-shirt and jeans—but behind that could be a quiet victory. That child still showed up, found courage, and wanted to be part of something. That matters. Halloween shouldn’t come with conditions. If a child has the bravery to knock on a stranger’s door—costume or not—they deserve kindness, not judgment.

 Words Don’t Always Come Easily

I’ve witnessed people who seemed annoyed because a child didn’t say “trick or treat”—or didn’t say it fast enough. That reaction has always bothered me.

Not every child communicates the same way. There are nonverbal children, kids on the autism spectrum, those who are incredibly shy, children with speech delays, and others who simply freeze when they feel overwhelmed. Their silence is not a lack of manners or effort. Sometimes their presence is their kindness.

If a child holds out their bucket with big eyes and a nervous smile, that is communication. That is them saying, I want to be included. And isn’t that the whole point?

Teenagers Deserve Kindness Too

Let’s talk about teens—the group everyone seems divided about on Halloween night. Some say they’re too old to trick-or-treat. Others criticize their costumes or roll their eyes when they see tall figures holding candy bags. But I see something very different.

I see young people holding on to a piece of their childhood before life forces them to grow up too quickly. I see teens choosing something wholesome instead of getting into trouble or partying. I see kids—yes, still kids—showing up with friends to feel joy.

If a teenager knocks on my door with a pillowcase and a smile, I’ll hand them candy with the same warmth I’d give a five-year-old in a superhero costume. Growing up isn’t easy. If they want one more year of simple happiness, who am I to take that away?

Kindness Costs Nothing

It doesn’t take much to be gentle with others. A smile. A handful of candy. A moment of patience. These tiny acts may seem small, but to someone else they can mean so much. Halloween can be loud and overwhelming for some. For others, it might be their first Halloween in a new neighbourhood. Some may be missing someone they wish was still here. We never know what someone is carrying.

This Halloween, I’m reminding myself of something simple: kindness never goes out of style. No one is harmed by compassion. And the world could use more people who choose grace over assumptions.

This Year, I’m Choosing Compassion

Even though we don’t get any trick-or-treaters where we live, I still believe in what this night represents. Halloween may look quiet from my front door, but that doesn’t mean I can’t be part of making the world a little softer. Kindness isn’t limited to a doorstep or a candy bowl. It lives in the way we speak about others, the way we choose empathy over judgment, and the way we treat people with understanding and care.

Whether I’m out in the world or simply writing from home, I can still choose compassion. I can remind others to be gentle—with children who don’t wear costumes, with teens who still want to feel young, with shy hearts who struggle to speak, and with anyone who just wants to belong.

This Halloween, I’m choosing to be a voice that spreads understanding instead of assumptions. I’m choosing to believe that even small reminders of humanity matter. I’m choosing to show love in quiet ways—from my heart, from my home, from my words.

Because compassion doesn’t need a crowd. It just needs someone willing to live it.