Sandy Langhart Michelet
World Childless Week Ambassador
Halloween is October 31st in the United States, a night filled with costumes, candy, and community. For me, it has always held a special kind of magic. Back in the 1970s and early 1980s, Halloween costumes were a very different experience. Most were made of thin, flimsy plastic that didn’t breathe, so walking around in them in the South Louisiana heat felt like being in a steam bath. Some costumes came with plastic capes that tore instantly, and others had itchy, scratchy fabric that made you constantly tug and fidget. The pièce de résistance was the hard plastic mask…so sharp it could cut your face - and held in place by a thin rubber band that either slipped off or would snap you unexpectantly. You couldn’t see well, you couldn’t breathe easily, and every step felt a little scary. Yet somehow, despite the discomfort, those costumes felt magical.
My brother Travis and I would race through the neighborhood with our buckets clutched tightly, trading loot at the end of the night, and desperately trying not to pass out in those masks. The thrill of costumes, the crisp fall air, and the anticipation of running (albeit carefully) from house to house…it all felt unforgettable.
Years later, I got to relive that magic with my niece and nephew. Seeing Halloween through their eyes reminded me how special these moments are, and how traditions can create lasting memories across generations. I looked forward to my children having the same experience trick or treating that my brother and I did. But life had other plans.
When we moved into our new neighborhood eleven years ago, I noticed we didn’t get many trick-or-treaters. At first, Halloween carried a bittersweet reminder of celebrations I thought were no longer possible. But over time, we created something entirely new. We started hosting a light, neighborly gathering on Halloween night. Ours isn’t scary Halloween. Instead, neighbors bring chairs, we sit in the driveway, catch up on each other’s lives, and enjoy taco soup. (Yes, it’s the kind where you only open the cans…but it is still delicious). When the rare trick-or-treaters arrive, we pass out candy.
One of my favorite parts of the night is dressing our goldendoodle, Ryder, in an adorable costume while my husband looks at him and says, “I’m sorry your mama does that to you, buddy,” every single year. It’s silly, it’s warm, and it’s exactly the kind of playful joy that makes Halloween meaningful now.
Over the years, this tradition has grown into something far bigger than candy or costumes. Bonds with neighbors have strengthened, laughter fills the driveway, and everyone looks forward to it. What used to be a night that triggered feelings of longing has become a celebration of connection, warmth, and joy.
I’ve learned that the memories we cherish don’t have to look like the ones we imagined. Childhood Halloween memories, family traditions, or the “expected” ways of celebrating may feel out of reach, but that doesn’t mean the joy is gone. We have the power to create our own memories, ones that reflect who we are and the life we’ve built.
Sometimes the most meaningful moments are the simple ones: sitting around taco soup with neighbors, watching Ryder wiggle in his costume, sharing stories and laughter late into the evening. These are the moments that linger, the memories we carry forward, and the stories that truly define our lives. Childlessness doesn’t limit the joy, connection, or legacy we leave…it simply gives us the chance to imagine it differently, more intentionally, and often more warmly than we expected.
