When I was a sprightly young child, Halloween was more than just a night of sugary indulgence and terrifyingly creative costumes; it was the pinnacle of my philanthropic aspirations. You see, while my fellow trick-or-treaters were busy curating their candy collections with the most intricate strategies, I found myself on a mission not just for sweets, but for something much more profound: a noble cause—I had stumbled into the world of “Trick-or-Treat for UNICEF.” It all began innocently enough. Armed with a pirate costume that was more polyester than fabric and a plastic sword that wobbled, I hit the streets with my orange UNICEF box (which I like to think of as the fancy cousin of the generic candy bag). My parents filled my head with grand tales of kids helping kids, building schools with candy dollars, and bringing clean water to faraway lands. I didn’t understand all of it, but I figured if I could snag enough coins instead of candy, I could help save the world, one dime at a time. What I didn’t realize was that my philanthropic pursuits would turn me from a candy-seeking whimsical kid into a miniature door-to-door fundraiser—sans the official-looking blazer. As I ambled from house to house, I quickly learned that asking for money on Halloween is an art form, much like dodging neighbors with overzealous decorations. “Trick-or-treat! And would you like to save the world?” I’d chirp earnestly. Most adults, lost in their sugar-fueled nostalgia, were caught off guard, leading to awkward pauses where they fumbled for change while eyeing my box like it contained an ancient relic. In those moments, I crafted a sales pitch worthy of a billionaire tech mogul: “One quarter equals one small school in a foreign land! And two quarters means two school supplies! Just think of the children!” You could almost see them debating whether to hand over their peppermints or take the moral high ground with some spare change. Yet, this noble quest for philanthropy wasn’t without its trials. There was the inevitable house with no candy—only health bars. I remember thinking, “What kind of horror is this?” So, I resorted to my backup plan: “Do you have any coins? UNICEF needs them!” More times than I’d like to admit, it led to hilariously awkward exchanges with bewildered homeowners. Picture a kindly old lady offering me peppermint-flavored dental floss while her cat awkwardly scrutinized my box. Then came the inevitable encounter with the seasoned trick-or-treaters, gathering around the corner and snickering as I stood there, box in hand, asking for donations while they delighted in their hefty pillowcases filled with chocolate. “What a loser!” they’d chant, their voices dripping with sugar-fueled disdain. But this only fueled my resolve; little did they know that my generosity would both save the planet and allow me to enjoy a coveted Ariel lunchbox the following day at school—it was worth every awkward walk of shame between houses. Ah, and how could I forget the candy exchange! You see, the transaction didn’t end with the collecting of the coins. Oh no, after hefting the weight of my philanthropy on my tiny shoulders, it was time to confront the realities of what it meant to have raised $5.24 for humanitarian aid. My peers happily engaged in a candy barter system that included “two Skittles for one Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup.” Meanwhile, I, the gal with the orange box, was just begging for a seat at the table—if only one could be exchanged for three nickels. In hindsight, my Trick-or-Treat for UNICEF experience taught me valuable lessons: How to dodge confrontation and disappointment while maintaining charm, how to present a sales pitch that involved childlike bliss mixed with gut-wrenching guilt, and how to smile even when someone handed me an entire box of raisins instead of candy. My contributions to UNICEF might not have been substantial in the monetary sense, but they certainly took me on a winding path of colorful encounters. As I’ve grown older, I look back fondly at those Halloween nights spent “trick-or-treating” for change. I’ve traded my plastic sword for a computer mouse, my pirate hat for a professional headshot, but the spirit remains. Today, I still embrace absurd fundraising tactics, but now with a snarky twist and as I survey the candy landscape, I realize some things never change—there will always be that one house that “ran out of candy” while simultaneously handing out kale chips. So here’s to Halloween, and to the little ones still holding their boxes, ready to take on the world one neighborhood at a time. Just remember: sometimes, charity means taking a gamble on candy over coins, and other times, it’s trading that disappointment for a bit of hilarity. Because if you can’t laugh while saving the world, you might as well be eating all the leftover candy and calling it “self-care.”