The Morning Commute: A Study in Ghostwalking

The light turned green at the intersection of 5th and  Elm,  and I realized with a jolt that I didn’t remember the last three miles. I had been driving, yes—my hands moved the wheel, my foot found the brake—but I wasn’t there. I was a ghost haunting my own driver’s seat, trapped in a cold, circular argument with a version of my boss that only exists in my head.

Outside the glass, a world was screaming with life. The wind was whipping through the skeletal branches of the oaks, a frantic, beautiful dance of shedding and survival. A stray dog stood on the corner, shivering, its eyes wide and searching for a kindness I was too distracted to offer. We were all there together in the gray morning light, yet I was miles away, bartering my precious minutes for a handful of worries and a pocketful of regrets. I was ghostwalking through the only Monday I will ever have, oblivious to the fact that the in-between isn't a waiting room—it’s the actual destination.

This sense of missing it - of meandering through time without consideration for the life being lived around me, is what I call ghostwalking. And a lot of us engage in it in ways we don't even realize. 

The Blur of Utility vs. The Grace of Becoming

When we are lost in the haze of ghostwalking, we stop seeing people as people. We start seeing them as functions. The barista is simply the machine that dispenses caffeine; the coworker is just a hurdle to productivity; the partner is a static fixture in our domestic landscape. We stop looking for the becoming. 

To "become" is to be in a constant state of transition—a slow-motion metamorphosis that never actually finishes. But ghostwalking blinds us to this. We project our expectations onto others, freezing them in time and forcing them to stay the same, simply because it’s easier for us that way. It’s safer to interact with a projection than a human being.

When we finally snap out of it—when we stop ghostwalking—the world suddenly regains its depth. You look at the person across the table and realize they aren’t just "your spouse" or "your friend." They are a landscape. They are undergoing their own silent, brutal, beautiful changes. They are losing their leaves just like the trees in autumn, and they are blooming in hidden ways you haven't bothered to look for because you were too busy worrying about your own survival.

To truly witness another person’s  becoming is an act of radical empathy. It is the antithesis of the ghostwalk. It requires us to put down the heavy, useless baggage of our own anxieties and simply be with them in the present.

It is happening in the wind, in the trees, and in the person in the car next to you.

The Shared Pulse: From Leaves to Lives

There is a profound, terrifying symmetry in the way a maple tree sheds its crimson leaves and the way a human being outgrows a version of themselves. Both are acts of surrender. Both are necessary for survival.

When we stop ghostwalking, we realize that the wind rattling the windowpane isn’t just noise; it’s the Earth breathing. And the person sitting across from you, perhaps struggling with a choice or quietly evolving into someone new, is part of that same atmospheric shift. We are all "becoming" together. To ignore the tree's transition is to eventually ignore our own—and worse, to ignore the metamorphosis of those we claim to love.

The tragedy isn't just that we miss the beauty; it’s that we miss the truth. The truth is that life is a precarious, high-stakes miracle happening in the mundane minutes between our all our important appointments. If we spend those minutes in the graveyard of our own regrets, we aren't just losing time—we are losing our humanity.

Coming Back to Life: A Practice

If you find yourself ghostwalking today—if the world feels flat, or if you realize you’ve been staring through people instead of at them—try to break the spell. You don't need a grand gesture; you just need to witness.

• Acknowledge the Shedding: Look at a tree, or even a houseplant, and acknowledge that it is doing the hard work of existing without your permission.

• See the Becoming: Look at someone you see every day. Try to find one thing about them that has changed—a new habit, a different way they hold their shoulders, a phrase they’ve started using. Realize they are a work in progress, just like you.

• Forgive the Ghost: Don't meet your  ghostwalking self with more judgment. That just creates more worry. Instead, simply say, "I’m back now," and feel the air in your lungs.

The cycle of life doesn't wait for us to be ready or "less stressed." It is happening in the wind, in the trees, and in the person in the car next to you. Don't get to the end of the road only to realize you were never really in the car.