Fall brings a change in the air, a change in the leaves, and the sense that we’re turning a page. It may be the one night of the year when suburban Americans actually step outside, walk our neighborhood streets, and talk to our neighbors. Young kids run free from house to house, dressed up as the heroes and idols they wish to become and proud parents take scores of pictures.

But there’s one part of Halloween that’s always troubled me, and it seems to be growing worse each year: the celebration and glorification — of gore and murder.

I had a neighbor who every year fills their front yard with scenes of horror: decapitated baby dolls, blood-soaked mannequins, a psychotic nurse in a rocking  chair with a knife in her hand, and a full size animatronic chainsaw killer hiding in the bushes at the curb of the street standing over a pile of plastic dismembered bloody body parts. 

I can’t help but think about the kids on the street who throw a football or ride their bikes past that house every day for the month of October.  What effect does the normalization of those images have on their developing minds?  But that’s not what I want to talk about here. 

Defenders of Halloween macabre might argue that it gives us a healthy way to confront and laugh at what scares us. Maybe that’s true. But if so, then I suggest we’re afraid of the wrong things — or at least, our list of fears is incomplete.

What I want to focus on here is how our fascination with gore and murder — might actually be a reflection of the wrong fears.

A healthy fear of a chainsaw-wielding murderer jumping out of the bushes?  Okay. That fear might guide some positive parenting — directing us on where our kids should go or not go and what to watch out for.

But the truth is, there’s a greater chance that your child will die by suicide than by any form of murder — chainsaw, knife, gun, blunt object, poisoning — any of it doesn’t stack up to the number of youth deaths by suicide.

Even if you add up all the deaths from COVID, heart disease, diabetes, and cancer — and then double that number — you still won’t reach the number of our children who will die this year by suicide.

There are a lot of things to be afraid of and according to the CDC for ages 0-18 in 2023, total deaths from venomous spiders?  Statisically, Zero.  Rabid bats?  (or as the CDC codes it “other encounters with mammals”)  Zero. Chainsaws? (“contact with other powered hand tools and household machinery”) Zero. Shark attacks?  (“contact with a marine animal”)  Zero.  Suicide?  Two thousand and sixty eight.

I’m not suggesting we add images of suicide to our Halloween displays — absolutely not.

But I am suggesting that maybe our fears — and the things we choose to focus on — need to be realigned with the dangers that are actually taking our children’s lives.

When our kids are little, we pour endless time, energy, and money into protecting them.  We baby-proof the house, monitor their every move, and install cameras to keep them safe. Modern parents hover and plow — out of love. We don’t let our children out of our sight.

And if a parent dares to let their child walk alone to the park, there’s a risk someone will call it negligence and even unlawful.

When they’re older, we talk to our kids repeatedly about the dangers of drunk driving, alcohol, drugs, and sex. We warn them about fentanyl and date rape. We find the time and the courage to talk about all those scary things. As we should.

But somewhere between the pictures of our kids dressed as a firefighter and the pictures of them in their college game day gear — do we spend even one hour talking with them about suicide?

We spend thousands of hours helping our kids become the heroes and idols of their youth, driving them to practices, helping them perfect a curveball, a backhand, or a free throw. But have we spent two hours practicing how to recognize the signs of anxiety, depression, or suicide risk — and what to do when we see them?

I thought I was a really good dad.  And in many ways, I was. But looking back, I can see that many of my fears were misplaced and I did not spend time protecting Manny against the bogeyman that ultimately got him.  I don’t share this out of guilt or blame, but rather, a terriying fear that we don’t learn from our real nightmares.

So this Halloween — if you’re one who lives to decorate your yard  — I hope you’ll pause for a moment. Think about what you’re celebrating and the messages your display sends to the kids walking by on what should be their night of fun.

And somewhere between the years of the Mickey Mouse ears and the college buffalo horns, I hope you’ll find an hour to talk about an actual leading cause of youth death in America — not fantasy macabre, but the real horror of suicide.