Title of this articla — global hiring guide

I was ten years old, wrapped in a trash bag full of balloons, and I was about to learn that in the economy of popularity, originality is a worthless currency.

The costume was genius at home. My mom stayed up until 2 AM making a replica “Jelly Belly” logo to glue onto a clear garbage bag. We filled it with balloons. I wore a bow in my hair and thought I looked like a fucking masterpiece.

I invite you to note the *exquisite* detail of the cellophane bag attached to the bow

I walked into that Halloween party like I owned the place.

Then the boys started popping my balloons.

Then I lost at the Limbo in the first round.

Then the girls showed up in their training-bra vampire costumes. All fake blood and visible collarbone. They’d somehow already learned that Halloween had stopped being about imagination and fun-sized candy bars and was now about whether boys think you’re hot.

I stood there in my trash bag and realized: I’d brought creativity to a sex appeal contest.

That night I learned something that would take me twenty years to unlearn: if you want to be liked, stop being interesting.

Why That One Halloween Resurrects Itself

Halloween hits different when you’re a kid. It’s the one sanctioned night where you get to try on a different identity, and your developing brain is taking notes.

Child development psychologist Erik Erikson described ages 7–12 as the stage of industry versus inferiority. It’s when kids start shifting from the imaginative world of early play into a social world defined by peers, performance, and comparison. For the first time, kids are learning how to measure themselves against rules, grades, and each other (Erikson, 1968). Halloween, for kids this age, becomes an accidental social experiment: a night where they try on identities and get immediate, and sometimes brutal, feedback.

Things get even more complicated once the adolescent brain enters the picture. The medial prefrontal cortex (mPFC) is the region of the brain that defines how you see yourself and predicts how others see you and it comes online in a big way during the teenage years. Think of your mPFC as your brain’s PR manager: it’s in charge of your self-image and constantly refreshing your approval ratings.

Functional MRI studies show that when adolescents think about themselves or imagine how peers view them, their brains light up with much more activity than adult brains do. This is because the part of the brain that eventually learns to say “eh, fuck ‘em” hasn’t fully developed (Blakemore, 2008; Pfeifer et al., 2011). It’s like walking around with a unmoderated comments section in your head.

Learning about the teenage mPFC made me wonder why some kids have the ability to continue being their weird selves through adolescence while some kids (like me) turn inward, and others go full crowd pleaser.

The research points to a few factors. Some kids are born with nervous systems that are less reactive to social threat, so they simply don’t feel peer rejection as intensely (Kagan, 1994). Others have secure attachment to caregivers, which acts as a buffer. When your parents consistently validate you, you develop an internal voice that counters peer rejection with “but my people think I’m good” (Sroufe, 2005). And some kids develop the “eh, fuck ‘em” part of the brain earlier than others, which makes them better at overriding the fear based signals (Diamond, 2013).

Unfortunately, even those kids who fight their mPFC and become counter-normative teenagers will pay a price. Research shows that unconventional teenagers (the ones who march to the beat of their own drummer) score higher on creativity measures but also higher on anxiety in adolescence (Russ & Grossman-McKee, 1990).

So that kid who shows up at your door dressed as “capitalism”? Primed to be an angsty teenager.

That probably didn’t take a Northwestern counseling degree to figure out.

Your Brain Tattoos

I’m a little bit drama, but that’s not why the Jelly Belly Incident of 1995 still glows in the dark. It’s because memories formed between ages ten and thirty are less like photographs and more like tattoos, it’s an emotional ink you never quite grow out of.

Researchers call this the “reminiscence bump.” It’s the period when your hippocampus and amygdala are running at peak efficiency, flagging emotionally charged moments as THIS IS IMPORTANT. REMEMBER THIS FOREVER (Rubin et al., 1986). It’s your brain’s way of making sure you never forget that time you tried out for the school play and your voice cracked, or that time you got pantsed in gym class, or that time the entire drum line laughed at your breasts bouncing.

When something socially threatening happens like rejection, humiliation, or watching boys destroy your costume piece by piece, your amygdala lights up and tags the moment as important. Your hippocampus then moves that moment from short-term storage into long-term memory because it wants you to remember this so you can avoid future pain. Your prefrontal cortex, which is still developing, scrambles to make sense of the social hierarchy and construct a narrative that explains why this happened.

The story my brain constructed was “Different equals unsafe.”

What’s incredible about the human brain is those boys only had to pop my balloons once. After that? I started popping my own balloons.

Don’t be weird.

You don’t look like the other girls.

Tone it down.

Pop. Pop. Pop.

For the next decade, every time I had a creative idea or wanted to stand out, my amygdala would whisper: “Remember what happened last time?” And I’d make myself smaller. Not because anyone was actively bullying me anymore. They didn’t have to. I was bullying myself.

This is what “self-defining memories” do (Singer & Salovey, 1993). They become the stories we tell ourselves about who we are. And once your brain decides you’re the kind of person who gets rejected for being creative, it starts looking for evidence to confirm that story everywhere. It’s like your brain becomes a conspiracy theorist and the conspiracy is you are weird and will die alone.

Until you learn to rewrite it.

Good News! That Memory Isn’t Permanent

For most of the 20th century, neuroscientists thought memories were like files burned onto a CD. Permanent, unchangeable, yours forever. Like that embarrassing AIM screen name you can never take back (looking at you JesusFreak612).

Turns out, they were wrong.

Memories are more like living documents. Every time you recall them, they become temporarily unstable and editable before they’re re-saved (Nader & Hardt, 2009). This process is called “reconsolidation,” and it’s why therapy works.

When I told my therapist about the jelly bean incident, he didn’t say “kids are mean” or “you were brave.” He said: “Of course that fucked with your sense of self. You pride yourself on being different and that became threatening.” (My therapist also views profanity as performance art)

His response, that validation without pity, allowed my brain to reopen the file and add new information: Middle school boys pop balloons. That’s what they do. It wasn’t about me being wrong. It was about them being twelve-year-old knuckleheads whose frontal lobes were basically decorative.

When I spoke to my mom about this article, her response was: “You were the one with creative ideas. I just did the best I could with our budget.”

Suddenly the memory wasn’t about failure. It was about having a family who supported my weirdness even when the world didn’t.

Each time I recalled that night with a different emotional response such as acceptance instead of shame, pride instead of embarrassment, my medial prefrontal cortex rewrote the story for me (McLean et al., 2007).

The memory shifted from: “I was the loser in the trash bag”

To: “I was the goofy kid whose family celebrated creativity over conformity.”

Here’s What Nobody Tells You About Being the Weird Kid

A meta-analysis of creativity research found adults who report childhood experiences of “not fitting in” score significantly higher on measures of creative achievement (Damian & Simonton, 2015). The popular kids, meanwhile, are doing great in middle management.

That’s me being bitchy. The research didn’t actually show the middle management part.

When you grow up feeling different, you face a choice: try to conform and maybe still not fit in, or be yourself and definitely not fit in. Some kids choose authenticity. Whether by temperament, parental support, or sheer stubbornness, they decide that pretending is even more exhausting than being rejected.

Being authentic in the face of rejection builds a kind of psychological armor made of self-respect and congruence. Research by Gino and Kouchaki (2020) found that practicing authenticity makes you less sensitive to social rejection over time. It’s like exposure therapy, every time you show up as yourself and survive your brain recalibrates and understands that authenticity isn’t fatal. Either people accept you, or you get stronger. Either way, you win.

And that immunity becomes your competitive edge. You can take creative risks that everyone else is too socially afraid to take. You’re not necessarily smarter or more talented. You’re just less scared of looking stupid.

So if you grew up feeling alienated, it wasn’t a bug. It was the feature. The one that powers every artist, writer, entrepreneur, and innovator who ever did something the world didn’t see coming.

What This Means for Parents: The Minnie Mouse Uprising

One Halloween, my nephew announced he wanted to be Minnie Mouse.

Not Mickey. Minnie.

He wanted the dress, the bow, the whole thing. Meanwhile, my niece — his older cousin — declared she was going as Minecraft Steve. In full blocky armor. No compromises.

My siblings didn’t blink.

They took both kids to the store. Bought the Minnie Mouse costume for their son. Built the Minecraft Steve costume for their daughter. Took pictures. Posted them online with zero explanation or apology.

And you know what happened? The kids had incredible Halloweens.

My nephew twirled in his polka dot dress like he was performing at the Met. My niece wielded her pixelated sword like she was defending the realm. Neither of them had any idea they were “breaking rules” because their parents never told them there were rules to break.

That’s the whole game right there.

If you’re reading this as a parent, here’s what the research says: your response to your kid’s costume choice matters more than the costume itself (Gralewski & Karwowski, 2019). When kids experiment with identity through costume play, they’re doing important developmental work. They’re not just playing dress-up; they’re trying on versions of themselves to see what fits.

A study on parental responses to children’s creative expression found that kids whose parents validated unconventional choices (even when those choices led to peer rejection) showed higher resilience and creative self-efficacy in adulthood (Beghetto, 2006; Karwowski, 2014).

This doesn’t mean you pretend the rejection doesn’t hurt. Instead, you help them understand that fitting in and being yourself are sometimes mutually exclusive.

And that’s okay.

I defy you to make make a better homemade bat costume.

How to Support Your Weird Kid

Here’s the thing about being a parent in 2025: Halloween has somehow become even more loaded than it was in the ’90s. Social media means every costume gets documented, compared, and judged. Gender norms are both loosening and being policed harder than ever. And kids are navigating all of this with brains that are still under construction.

So what do you actually do when your kid wants to wear something that you know might get them teased?

Before Halloween: The Prep Work

Have the conversation early. This is reserved for older children. Younger kids (before the age of seven) do not need this conversation. Kids navigating social acceptance do.

The conversation you need to have with your teen or pre-teen is not the “are you sure you want to wear that?” conversation. It’s the “some kids might not understand your costume, and that’s okay” conversation.

Try something like:

“That costume is awesome. Some kids might not get it because they’re used to seeing [girls/boys] dress as [expected thing]. But you love it and I do too. If anyone says something mean, it’s because they don’t understand how important it is to stand out yet, not because you chose wrong.”

Or whatever less cheesy version works for your kid. That’s a template, not a script.

Let them know they can change their mind. Not because their choice is wrong, but because it’s their choice. Kids need to know they have agency.

“If you get there and decide you want to change, that’s totally fine. If you get there and feel amazing, that’s also fine. This is your call.”

Prepare them for questions. Role-play if needed. What will they say if someone asks “Why are you dressed as a girl?” or “That’s not a real costume”?

Help them practice responses:

“Because I wanted to.”
“I think it’s cool.”
“Why not?”

Short answers. Confidence. Done.

During Halloween: The Moment of Truth

Show up. Physically, emotionally, all of it. If your kid is wearing something unconventional, be visibly proud. Other parents are watching. Other kids are watching. Your kid is watching.

Post the photos. Brag about the creativity. Laugh at the jokes. Make it clear: this is celebrated in your family.

When my family posted photos of Minnie Mouse nephew and Minecraft Steve niece, they didn’t add disclaimers like “he insisted!” or “she’s going through a phase.” They just captioned it: “Halloween Crew.”

That’s the move.

Intervene if needed, but let them lead. If another kid says something cruel, check in with your kid first. Do they want you to step in? Or do they want to handle it? One of the most important phrases you can use with your kid is “how do you want to handle that?”

Document the joy. Take pictures of them being happy in their costume. Not posed photos for the ‘gram. Real moments. Them laughing. Them eating candy. Them being exactly who they wanted to be.

Years from now, when they’re questioning whether they should’ve been “weird,” those photos will be evidence that it was worth it.

After Halloween: The Integration

Debrief without judgment. Ask open-ended questions:

“What was your favorite part of the night?”
“Did anything happen that felt bad?”
“Would you choose that costume again?”

Don’t lead them toward “see, wasn’t that hard?” and don’t lead them toward “see, I told you it would be fine.” Just listen.

Validate all feelings. If they had fun, celebrate. If they got teased and it hurt, acknowledge that. If they’re confused about why other kids reacted the way they did, help them understand without making them feel like they did something wrong.

“Some kids are scared of things that are different because they haven’t learned yet that different is cool. You already know that, which makes you ahead of the game.”

Connect them with their people. If your kid is the weird one, they need to know they’re not alone. Find them books, shows, communities where weird is celebrated. Introduce them to other creative kids. Show them that their people exist. My people were the nerds in marching band, and 25 years later they’re still my best friends. And none of us are in middle management.

What to Do When Your Kid Gets It Wrong

Sometimes kids choose costumes that are inappropriate. Not “weird” inappropriate. Actually inappropriate. Like “you will regret this when you’re up for Supreme Court justice one day” inappropriate.

Cultural appropriation. Sexualized costumes for young kids. Costumes that punch down, to name a few.

When that happens, your job isn’t to shame them. It’s to educate them.

Step 1: Curiosity first.

“Tell me about why you chose that costume. What do you like about it?”

Step 2: Information.

“Here’s what I need you to know about that costume…”

Explain why it’s harmful without making them feel like a bad person for not knowing.

Step 3: Redirect.

“What if we found a costume that has the same [cool factor/character/vibe] but doesn’t hurt people?”

Kids don’t usually choose harmful costumes to be cruel. They choose them because they don’t know. Give them the information and let them make a better choice.

If they insist… you’re the parent. You do have veto power. Sometimes being a good parent means being the asshole who says no to the sexy nurse costume for your eleven-year-old.

The not so sexy nurse, Dracula, and a…. lizard? dinosaur?

The Long Game: What You’re Really Teaching

When you support your kid’s costume choice, you’re not just helping them have a good Halloween. You’re teaching them something that will shape their entire life:

Your approval matters more than anyone else’s.

That’s it. That’s the whole lesson.

If they learn that lesson at eight, they won’t spend their twenties trying to figure out who they are underneath all the people they pretended to be. They won’t spend their thirties in therapy trying to give themselves permission to be interesting.

They’ll just… be themselves.

A study tracking creative children into adulthood found that the single biggest predictor of maintained creativity wasn’t talent, intelligence, or opportunity. It was whether they had at least one adult who consistently validated their unconventional choices (Runco, 2014).

One adult. That’s all it takes.

You could be that adult.

Final Thoughts: An Apology I’ll Never Get

Those boys who popped my balloons are in their forties now. Some of them have daughters. Some of them are (probably) good dads. Maybe they don’t remember that Halloween party at all. Maybe one of them is reading this right now, sweating.

I’ll never get an apology, and I don’t need one.

Because here’s what I know now that I didn’t know then:

The best things, the most creative things, innovative things, world-changing things…they always look ridiculous until everyone else catches up. And by then? You’re already three costumes ahead.

And if you’re a parent reading this, wondering whether to let your kid wear the “weird” costume:

Let them.

Take the pictures. Post them proudly. Stand next to them at the party. Show them that in your family, creativity doesn’t come with conditions. Twenty years from now, they won’t remember whether they got the most candy or won the costume contest.

They’ll remember whether you made them feel safe being themselves.

Happy Halloween, weirdos.

A Brief Thank You

Mom, Dad — thanks for letting me be weird. Thanks for letting me figure it out for myself. Thanks for supporting me through those tough years and celebrating with me when I stepped into the human I am today. It would be hard to be me without you.