There are ghosts among us—not the ghosts often rooted in folklore, nor the ones one would expect to haunt and linger in old house, but the ones we often create through our own existence. We carry them only in quiet moments, such as the way a song that we haven’t heard in awhile gives us pause just long enough to conjure up nostalgia. Some ghosts are the people we have lost, though some are the versions of ourselves we have left behind.

I have lived long enough to know that ghosts do not always haunt us in the way we expect. Sometimes, they arrive softly, while other times, they crash into us like an unexpected wave, dragging us under before we even have time to catch our breath. They are found in unsent letters, in emails and text messages that were never deleted, or in the way certain places feel too emotionally heavy to revisit because of the memories we often attribute to them.

And then, there are the ghosts we become.

We have all been ghosts in someone’s story, it’s a facet of life that is inevitable. People change, they drift apart; while some ghosting is intentional, it is far more often caused by circumstances beyond our control. Sometimes, it happens so slowly that we barely notice, until we realize it has been years since the last conversation. Other times, it happens all at once—an unspoken decision, a necessary goodbye, or a sigh of relief after letting go of something we held onto for too long. Perhaps we are still haunting an old friend, a lost love, a family member who never understood why we left. Perhaps they still see us in the details of their everyday life, even if they would never say so out loud.

I think about the version of myself that existed at eight, sixteen, at twenty-six, and at forty. A woman who was born to a demanding father who was incapable of seeing her for who she was. Her ghost still lingers in places I seldom think about, and no longer visit. I have written over her in so many ways, but she is still there, a ghost watching from the corners of my memory. I wonder if she would recognize me now, but I am certain she would approve.

The ghosts we carry, and the ghosts we become are not always burdens. Sometimes, they are reminders of love, of lessons learned, of a life that was lived fully, even if it did not always feel that way in the moment.

There are no exorcisms for memory. No rituals that erase the past. And maybe that’s a good thing. Maybe the weight of the ghosts we carry is what makes us who we are.

February 10, 2025