A Halloween Night That Changed How I See Mental Illness

 An unexpected encounter taught me a lesson about kindness, compassion, and the prejudices we don't always realize we carry.

It was an October evening when I went to visit my mother at her senior living apartment building.

As I walked through the parking lot, I noticed the building manager, whom I knew well, hurrying toward the entrance.

At the front door, a security guard was speaking with an Asian woman. The manager approached them, exchanged a few words with the guard, and then asked the woman to follow her upstairs.

Since I was heading inside anyway, I followed along.

The woman appeared to be in her sixties or seventies. She was dressed in comfortable clothes, with an elegant scarf draped around her shoulders.

What caught my attention, however, was what she was carrying.

In one hand, she held a broom. In the other, a long-handled dustpan.

Upon closer inspection, I realized that she had wrapped clothing around the dustpan's handle, turning it into a strange, humanlike figure. A black hoodie appeared to be stuffed with something to give it the shape of a body.

The whole thing looked rather eerie.

It was October, after all, the season of Halloween. Ghosts, skeletons, and spooky decorations were everywhere. But seeing an elderly woman walking around outside carrying such an unusual creation was still a little unsettling.

When we reached the elevator lobby, the manager began asking the woman what she was holding.

The woman seemed to have difficulty understanding English. When I heard her respond in Chinese, I offered to translate.

"It's a decoration!" she explained in Mandarin, as though the answer were perfectly obvious.

I translated her words to the manager.

The manager shook her head, gently pointed toward her own head, and whispered to me, "She has some mental issues."

I was startled.

I looked again at the strange human-shaped object in the woman's hands.

Suddenly, it seemed even more frightening.

A Door Left Unlocked

Inside the elevator, the manager continued trying to communicate with the woman, but the language barrier made their conversation difficult.

"I can help translate," I offered.

The manager was delighted.

So I accompanied them to the fifth floor and followed them down a long hallway toward the woman's apartment.

Almost every door along the corridor was decorated for Halloween. There were pumpkins, skeletons, ghosts, and all kinds of creepy figures.

The familiar, quiet senior apartment building suddenly felt strangely eerie.

A chill ran down my spine as we walked.

Finally, we reached the woman's door.

There was a piece of paper taped to it, with a few Chinese characters written in large letters:

"This is my home."

I found it rather strange.

Why would someone need a sign on her own door reminding her that this was her home?

The manager gently pushed the door open.

It wasn't locked.

The three of us stepped inside.

I was astonished by what I saw.

The apartment was crowded with furniture of every size, leaving barely enough room to walk. Tables large and small were covered with all kinds of belongings: jewelry, ornaments, decorations, and countless little objects whose purposes I couldn't begin to guess.

It felt as though I had walked into an antique shop overflowing with treasures and clutter.

"Where is your phone?" the manager asked.

Apparently, she wanted to contact the woman's son.

But when they found the phone, its battery was dead.

The manager instructed her to plug it in and charge it. I translated the instructions.

Before we left, the manager reminded her once again not to wander around the building and to stay in her apartment and get some sleep.

I translated her words.

The woman smiled warmly and nodded.

"Okay. I'll go to sleep."

It was at that moment that I noticed how beautiful she actually was.

Although she appeared to be in her sixties or seventies, her skin was lovely, her features delicate, and her expression gentle.

Especially when she smiled.

We said goodbye and closed the door behind us.

A Hallway That Suddenly Felt Like a Maze

As we walked back toward the elevator, the manager explained that the woman frequently wandered through the building and tried to open other residents' doors.

Several residents had complained.

That was why the manager had placed the Chinese sign on her apartment door.

"This is my home."

It was meant to help her recognize her own apartment and find her way back.

Suddenly, the sign made perfect sense.

We continued toward the elevator.

But something strange happened.

The hallways I had walked through so many times suddenly seemed unfamiliar. Some doors at the intersections were closed, and I found myself completely disoriented.

For a moment, I had no idea where I was.

Fortunately, the manager knew the way.

We finally reached the elevator, only to discover that it wasn't working.

Thinking about everything that had happened, surrounded by all those Halloween decorations, I felt another chill run down my spine.

I followed the manager down the stairs to the third floor, where my mother lived.

But as I walked toward my mother's apartment, a thought suddenly struck me.

What was wrong with me?

The Prejudice I Didn't Know I Carried

I suddenly felt foolish.

And ashamed.

For years, I have been advocating for mental health awareness.

I have written about my own experiences with mental illness, encouraged people to seek help, and urged society to show greater understanding, respect, and compassion toward those living with mental health conditions.

I have spoken about breaking the stigma surrounding mental illness.

Yet when I encountered a woman whose behavior seemed unusual, a woman who might need help, my first reaction was not compassion.

It was fear.

I wanted to get away from her.

Why?

I began to examine my own feelings.

The truth was, this fear wasn't unfamiliar.

In the past, whenever I encountered someone whose speech, expressions, or behavior seemed noticeably different from those of most people, particularly someone others might casually label as "crazy," I often felt uneasy.

Sometimes I worried that the person might suddenly lose control or even become aggressive.

But how much did I really know about these people?

Did I know what they had experienced?

Did I understand what they were going through?

And what gave me the right to assume that someone was dangerous simply because they looked, spoke, or behaved differently?

Mental health conditions can take many forms. Unusual behavior may be associated with a psychiatric condition, cognitive decline, a physical illness, or something else entirely.

We cannot diagnose someone based on a brief encounter.

Nor should we assume that someone is dangerous simply because their behavior is unfamiliar to us.

Of course, feeling cautious around unexpected or confusing behavior is a natural human response.

But caution should not become prejudice, and fear should not become an excuse to withhold kindness.

The more I thought about it, the more uncomfortable I felt.

My Mother Taught Me a Lesson

When I reached my mother's apartment, I told her what had happened.

My mother is now in her nineties. Thank God, she is still physically healthy and mentally sharp.

To my surprise, she knew the woman.

"Oh, I know her!" Mom said. "We see each other all the time."

"Have you noticed anything unusual about her?" I asked.

Mom thought for a moment.

"Well, sometimes she forgets things."

She explained that on several occasions, they had ridden the elevator together.

When Mom got off on the third floor, the woman would follow her out.

Mom would gently remind her, "Don't you live on the fifth floor?"

"Oh, yes!" the woman would reply. "I forgot!"

And she would return to the elevator.

Mom told me that whenever they met, she would greet the woman and sometimes chat with her.

The woman didn't talk much, but she always had a gentle smile.

As I listened, I suddenly felt an enormous admiration for my mother.

She didn't treat the woman differently because she was forgetful or behaved in unusual ways.

She didn't avoid her.

She didn't look at her as someone strange or frightening.

She simply greeted her, talked with her, and reminded her when she got off on the wrong floor.

Just as she would with any other neighbor.

No exaggerated pity. No condescending sympathy. No judgment. Just the simple, natural kindness of one human being toward another.

Wasn't this exactly what I had been advocating all along?

I had written so many articles about mental health, understanding, acceptance, and love.

Yet my mother hadn't needed to give a single speech or write a single essay.

She simply lived those values through small, ordinary acts of kindness.

At that moment, I realized that I had something important to learn from her.

Sometimes, All They Need Is a Little More Help

When I returned home, I told my husband about the encounter.

"Could she be showing early signs of Alzheimer's disease or another form of cognitive impairment?" he wondered.

He pointed out that if the woman frequently became confused or forgot where she lived, wandering outside alone could put her in danger.

Perhaps what she needed wasn't fear or avoidance from the people around her.

Perhaps she needed more care, attention, and protection.

His words made me think even more deeply.

We didn't know what condition, if any, the woman was living with. Her forgetfulness and changes in behavior would need to be evaluated by a healthcare professional. We couldn't draw conclusions based on our observations alone.

But one thing was certain.

Whether she had a medical condition or not, she deserved dignity, respect, and kindness.

There are many people like her in our communities.

Some are living with depression, bipolar disorder, schizophrenia, or other mental health conditions.

Some older adults are experiencing memory loss, cognitive decline, or the gradual loss of their independence.

Others may struggle to communicate because of language barriers, physical illnesses, or circumstances we know nothing about.

Sometimes their behavior confuses us.

Sometimes we don't know how to respond to what they say.

Sometimes we may even feel uncomfortable, afraid, or helpless.

But first and foremost, they are human beings.

They have their own stories, families, memories, and dreams.

They have the same need to be understood, respected, and loved as anyone else.

We may not understand everything they do.

We may not have the ability to solve their problems.

But we can begin with small acts of kindness.

A friendly smile.

A gentle greeting.

A little patience.

A willingness to listen.

Helping someone find their way home when they are lost.

Reaching out to a family member, caregiver, or professional when someone needs assistance.

Sometimes, these seemingly insignificant gestures can bring a little more warmth into someone's world.

And make that world feel a little less lonely.

A Final Reflection: May We All Learn to Be a Little Kinder

When I think back to that October evening, I can still picture the woman with the elegant scarf around her shoulders.

I remember the strange Halloween figure she carried.

And I remember the handwritten sign on her door:

"This is my home."

But what stays with me most is no longer the eerie atmosphere of that Halloween night.

It is her gentle smile.

And my mother's simple reminder:

"Don't you live on the fifth floor?"

I have come to realize that genuine kindness is often found in the smallest, most ordinary moments.

Mental health advocacy is not just about writing articles, sharing stories, or encouraging society to pay attention.

It is also about how we respond when we come face-to-face with someone who is different from us.

Can we set aside our assumptions?

Can we look beyond unfamiliar behavior?

Can we offer another person the dignity and kindness they deserve?

I have to admit that on that October evening, I fell short of the values I have spent years advocating.

But the experience helped me recognize something about myself that I needed to change.

And perhaps recognizing our own prejudice is the first step toward overcoming it.

We don't have to condemn ourselves for feeling afraid. But we can choose not to let fear determine how we treat others.

May we learn to judge a little less and understand a little more.

To turn away a little less and reach out a little more.

To replace fear with compassion, impatience with understanding, and indifference with kindness.

Because at some point in our lives, any one of us may become the person who needs a little extra care, patience, or help.

May we all become someone who is willing to help another person find their way home.

And that is the story I wanted to share this month.