Halloween, like many typical American or Westernized holidays, has always felt like a mixed bag to me. I used to yearn for those Hallmark moments I saw on TV, the fireplace adorned with stockings and overflowing with gifts, a long table filled with family, and a golden turkey at the center.
But in our immigrant household, American holidays looked different. We waited for the post–New Year’s sales to buy new clothes. We ate a quiet meal of KFC with rice for three on Thanksgiving, and most holidays, since my father had two jobs.
As a psychologist, I often reflect on how our earliest emotional memories shape how we navigate the world. This is one of mine. And it’s one I return to when I think about how long I’ve tried to belong, to be understood, to prove that I deserved a place in the room.
Imagine being almost five years old. You’ve just started kindergarten in the U.S., maybe six weeks in, and you’re still learning English. One late October morning, you walk into your classroom and see a boy in a black suit with white face paint and red fangs. The room is a swirl of orange and black, filled with ghosts, pumpkins, and what you’d later learn is Dracula. But at that moment, you have no idea what’s going on.
No one tells you it’s Halloween. Or maybe they tried, but you didn’t understand. You sit quietly on the classroom mat, the only one not in costume, watching as the day unfolds with a sense of confusion but also awe at the myriad of costumes and colors. You know that at least one consistent thing will happen mid-day, snack time. You’ve really come to like American cookies, especially the frosted animal crackers.
The classroom aide walks by and hands each student their cookie. You light up until the classroom aide passes you by. No cookies. The explanation? You didn’t come in costume.
I don’t remember the exact words spoken. But I remember how I felt: confused, embarrassed, angry. I was being punished for breaking a rule I didn’t know existed. As my classmates munched happily and chatted about something called “trick or treating,” I sat alone, wondering what I had done wrong.
My mom arrived for pick-up, and she must have been shocked at the costumes, too. I explained to her in Vietnamese that everyone had costumes, but I didn’t have one, so I didn’t get a cookie. I wanted empathy, but she hurried me home to relieve the neighbor who was watching my baby brother. She didn’t have time to process what I was trying to say.
And yet, little me was determined. Upon arrival at the apartment, I rifled through the house and found one of my mom’s precious brown paper grocery bags. I cut holes for eyes and arms, drew on some eyelashes, and turned it into my version of a Halloween costume. I was proud and excited to get my cookie.
I marched up to my mom in my new “costume” and asked her to take me back to school. But instead of validating my initiative, she got upset. Those bags were precious to her, repurposed as trash liners and used with frugal care.
“Take that off,” she said, “I’m not taking you back just for a silly cookie.”
Womp womp.
And just like that, I was reprimanded again. This time, not by the teacher or the system, but by my own mom. Not only had I not gotten a cookie, but I had somehow made things worse. I found myself not enough for school, but too much for home.
I don’t blame my mom. She was an overwhelmed immigrant parent navigating a culture that left little room for nuance or flexibility. She didn’t know the social currency of Halloween. She couldn’t understand why it mattered so much to me. And I don’t blame the teacher, either; this was the early ’80s, long before bilingual education or culturally responsive teaching were common.
Mostly, I feel compassion for that nearly five-year-old. The one who just wanted to understand, to belong, to participate. I still carry her with me.
The truth is, we all carry a part of our childhood selves inside us: their dreams, their fears, their unfinished questions. And what I’ve learned, through personal work and my practice with clients, is that those early experiences don’t just fade away. They become the templates we unconsciously carry forward. The ways we hustle for approval, read the room before speaking, or stay silent for fear of standing out too much.
It’s what director Shonda Rhimes described in her book as being an F.O.D.—the First, the Only, the Different in the room. Whether it’s the classroom, the workplace, or the family dinner table, being the F.O.D. can sharpen your awareness, increase your anxiety, and deeply shape your relationship to visibility and belonging. You learn to scan for danger before joy. To anticipate exclusion even when you’re included.
I see it in the clients I work with every day, people caught in the in-between. Between cultures, identities, expectations, and longing. Some are immigrants or the children of immigrants, navigating dual realities with invisible maps. Others grapple with unseen differences, such as neurodivergence, family estrangement, or career pivots, that challenge long-held narratives. For my queer clients, masking has often been essential for survival: code-switching, toning themselves down, or hiding parts of who they are just to stay safe.
What they all share is the ache of growing up under the weight of unwritten rules, the kind you only discover once you’ve broken them. But slowly, many are learning how to ease into themselves. To feel safe enough in their nervous systems to unmask. To stop contorting into acceptability. To stop performing for a kind of belonging that never quite arrives.
They still worry: “If I stop trying so hard, will people still love me? Will I be OK?”
Throughout our sessions, my clients begin to realize that belonging isn’t earned by following rules, especially ones that were never meant for them in the first place. True belonging starts when they stop apologizing for who they are and begin living in alignment with their own truths. I’m continually humbled to bear witness to their unlearning, their courage, and their reclamation of self.
So to that little girl in the paper bag costume, I say: Take off the bag. Not because you’re in trouble, and not because your costume wasn’t clever. Take it off because you no longer have to put on any kind of mask to fit in.
