Why I’m Sitting Out Halloween This Year…

This year, and every year in the foreseeable future, I’m sitting out Halloween.

No costume. No candy. No clever captions. No pretending. I will not be participating in exposing myself to darkness or horror movies, even if it is in the name of “fun”. I have never liked sugar anyway, and I really have never liked horror. Before, I would entertain it socially, but now I am refusing to do even that.

I’ll still socialize if it involves something more peaceful and fulfilling.

It’s not because I’ve lost my spark—or my imagination. It’s because this year, I’ve already given everything I have to things far more demanding than make-believe.

I’ve rebuilt a life from dust and grace. Not just physically—though the dirt on my boots could tell you a story—but emotionally, spiritually, and financially. One sacred step at a time. And now, I’m conserving what I’ve fought so hard to reclaim:

My peace.

My bandwidth.

My clarity.

My voice.

My selective inner circle.

I’m choosing rest over ritual. Reverence over revelry. Stillness over spectacle. Not because I’m bitter—but because I’m finally whole enough to protect what’s holy.

And I’ve come to realize that peace doesn’t need to be dressed up and paraded around. Sometimes it just needs to be held.

I’ve known masks. Not the kind you buy—The kind you survive behind.

In the newsroom, I smiled through exclusion. I edited video with one arm in a cast and the other praying for mercy. I worked basically unpaid, uncredited, and unsupported by the industry I gave everything to—while filming veterans, chasing truth across counties, and holding steady behind a lens while my life quietly fractured off-camera.

I once survived a car crash that shattered more than glass. It shattered the illusion that anyone in that news station ever truly saw me. And still, I showed up. Not for applause—but for something deeper: truth. Community. My son.

He turned thirteen this summer. He’s flying planes now, with aspirations to be a commercial pilot by the time he turns 18.

This is Eli during a layover in Chicago O’Hare while we traveled on our own. There is a nice play area for moms and babies, and he loved sitting in the cockpit of the play helicopter. I know I witnessed the true beginning of his piloting career.

But two years ago, on his birthday—just after my graduation weekend—I stood in a rodeo arena, one boot in the clay and the other in the invisible ground of motherhood, camera in hand and faith in my bones. That moment wasn’t just a segment. It was my return. My story. My sacred ground. And when someone tried to reassign it—tried to rewrite my narrative—I said no. And meant it.

The Truth is, I’ve unmasked a lot this year.

Not just toxic systems or dishonest mentors. I’ve unmasked my own grief. My exhaustion. The performance of being okay. And in that unmasking, I’ve found something I refuse to let go of: quiet joy.

So no—I won’t be stringing spiderwebs or pretending to enjoy conversations with people who only show up when they need something. I won’t decorate my porch for outsiders who don’t fully understand what it truly cost me to survive the year….. Though, many outsiders are very kind people. This isn’t about protest. It’s about preservation.

Back then, my son and I loved taking trips to the butterfly museum. We would wait until a certain point in the afternoon, when all the new “baby” butterflies were released into the open enclosure. There was also a fun play area there.

Instead of carving pumpkins, I’m pressing tulip bulbs into cold earth—small acts of resurrection buried beneath the coming frost. I’ll drink warm cider with people who ask nothing of me but my presence. No alcohol. No masks. No performances. Just soul meeting soul. I’ll light candles—not in hollowed-out gourds grinning with mockery—but in still, sacred rooms. For the women who taught me to kneel and speak with the Divine. For the children I still fight to protect. Those on earth and those unborn. And for the girl I once was—before the world tried to split her open and scatter the pieces.

Spoiler for those of you who tried: you cannot break a real soldier. And God always knew that.

“Planking” over random inanimate objects was a favorite pass time for soldiers in between duty hours. It built fitness, and lifted morale.

She’s still here.

A little quieter now.

 A little more whole.

 A lot more holy.

My sis, the photographer, captured this one.

She’s still learning. And she’s learned about the ones who were working against her behind her back. She recognizes who was preying on her downfall. She still prays for these people, but some people are just not going to be invited back in. They’ll be kept at a distance. Hopefully a long distance.

Because do you want to know what’s actually scary?

It’s not the ghosts or goblins or the syrupy red blood of dollar-store theatrics.

It’s walking away from the smirking betrayal of a system built to ‘protect’ children—accepting defeat and then having someone who got close to your family try to unalive you, forcing you into a bathtub because there it would be easier to “clean up the mess”. It’s finally escaping the control of mostly well-meaning relatives who refused to take the log out of their own eye before attempting to remove the speck from yours, and finally being able to buy your own home after saving every penny for an entire summer. It’s winning a public auction bid and stepping into a century-old house sagging with neglect, haunted only by your own exhaustion in a strange new town with zero connections. The first home you’ve ever owned.

You scrub the floors, patch the walls, cleanse the air of mildew and memory, shaping rot into refuge—only to be hunted down by the very people you escaped. And then welcoming them into the home you struggled to build all on your own because after all they are your own flesh and blood, then have them use your generosity and hospitality as the launching pad to find a way to betray you - yet again in your new life, your new home.

I backpacked this entire country, minus Alaska, before finally making my way back to my home and the place that was promised to me: the Upper Peninsula. All while reading the War Manual on the battlefield. When I got back, I went right to work, saving every penny while serving tourists to Pictured Rocks National Lakeshore for dinner cruises around Grand Island. I never thought $2100 would be enough to buy a house. But God showed me it was possible.

The real horror is the ones at work when you finally made it into a new industry - TV broadcasting - and all of your hard work was supposed to mean something….. The ones who praised you in daylight, only to bleed you dry in the shadows. Who offered flattery like poisoned wine, and discarded you just as easily. It’s the ones from an old industry that spun the cycle—love bomb, discard, apologize, repeat—like a ritual they’d rehearsed before you ever walked through their door.

It’s being followed—literally—by former coworkers in the old industry that you never gave your address to.

 It’s finding out the stalkers wormed their way into your new professional spaces, trespassing across boundaries like ghosts that refuse to stay buried.

 It’s learning that one of them, already steeped in intimidation, took a firearm across state lines—against direct orders from a company executive—just to have it registered under her name.

That’s not fiction.

 That’s not fear in a mask.

 That’s real horror.

It’s your work being celebrated in public (only in front of bigger executives), but secretly erased in private. It’s watching your accomplishments be stolen by quieter thieves in prettier costumes.

 It’s starting a new career with a major Televison network after leaving the corrupt one and then realizing, once again, that your gentleness has been mistaken for weakness.

 It’s the sharp pain of watching your son grow tall while you’re still rebuilding yourself from the rubble others left behind, including the rubble left from your own family members who had way more support when they went through similar struggles.

Halloween is about pretending.

 But I’ve walked through too many haunted corridors of real life to play dress-up now. Now, I’m dressing down.

Those of you that actively tried to break me (and most of you probably already know who you are), you tried to break US. This is how my son sees me. I’m his mom. And he took this picture of me when he was just 3 years old. I think he would rather see me alive and well, rather than over-extending myself to the point of exhaustion and death. I always remember that when I look at this picture. Its like seeing myself through his eyes.

As I have previously shared, earlier this year, I held a small jewelry box during Mass—its contents unassuming to anyone else. Miraculous medals. Silent prayers. Not just for my son or my sisters, but for every woman who was ever told to hush her rage and smile instead. That box came from a domestic violence awareness event I once covered as a journalist. I never expected to win the raffle, but when they called my name and I chose something beautiful—something untouched by manipulation or performance—at that moment I felt God lean in and whisper:

I see you.

I earned this coin for the state of Indiana, while I was in still in service there. I maintained excellent fitness scores, and helped run remedial physical training for soldiers who were struggling. A training period that lasted more than twice the usual length of time expected for National Guard annual training, because we were preparing for war.

And sometimes, that’s all you need. Its not about the miraculous medals or the challenge coins. It’s the one moment of divine acknowledgment in a world that forgets the quiet ones. It is those moments that truly mean something. Because it was the one and only time in my entire broadcasting career that I ever felt my work was truly recognized.

Except for maybe on this day. This was broadcasting from the Superior Dome to fulfill an obligation for my Sports Broadcasting class at NMU. To be completely honest, football was never my thing (just the only sporting events I was able to make it to in order to fulfill my obligation). I always joke about football teams, saying “I just hope everyone has fun”…… But helping my sis who got married on Presque Isle make her wedding feel special, even though I couldn’t make it to the wedding. Well, THIS was a beautiful moment that I will always cherish.

So No, I’m not hiding.

I’m just not putting on a costume to participate in something that feels hollow. Not because I’m sad…though I still have moments of sadness—but because I’ve finally stopped performing. This isn’t about boycotting Halloween. It’s about honoring the harvest. Honoring what’s real, what’s sacred.

I’ve spent enough time surviving betrayal. Rebuilding after burnout. Watching sacred spaces fall apart and rot while people laughed and turned up the volume on the noise of their own chaos. I once stood in the ruins of a church scheduled for demolition, watching people carry out pews, hymnals, stained-glass—salvaging the sacred. And I thought: This is what happens when we stop tending to what matters.

I still carry that ache.

Photo courtesy: my lovely sister, Emily.

I carry that awareness.

And I carry it with intention.

I’ve walked through the graveyard of my old self and come out resurrected.

I’ve heard God say, “You are not buried. You are planted.”

And this fall—I am harvesting peace.

So if you ask me what I’m doing for Halloween this year, I’ll tell you:

I’m praying.

I’m writing.

I’m healing.

I am respecting my own boundaries.

I’m planting things that will bloom in spring. (Hopefully)

I’m letting my son become who he was born to be, while I become who I was never allowed to be in rooms that demanded my silence.

And when the world quiets down again, I’ll still be here.

Rooted.

Rested.

Ready.

If Halloween brings you joy this year, I’m glad for you. I hope your cider is warm, your laughter is real, and your costume fits just right. But my wish for you is that you find and claim what is real and true in this world and never let it go. If, like me, you feel the pull to sit this one out—to rest, to reclaim, and to reflect, remember—you’re not alone.

Not everyone who skips Halloween is hiding.

Some of us just have seen enough horror to last a lifetime, and some of us aren’t that into pretending to be ok with it.

—Aimée

This post: signed in window markers by my once three-year-old. May he forever know that I will always fight for him. I might get weary and need to rest for awhile, but God knows I’m not giving up.