Article
Attention
Culture
Digital
Ghosting
Psychology
5 min read

Ghosting is not immature, it’s plain cruel

The dehumanising behaviour hiding in plain sight.

Belle is the staff writer at Seen & Unseen and co-host of its Re-enchanting podcast.

On a dark street someone checks their mobile phone for messages.

‘Do you really believe that the moon only exists when you look at it?’ 

It’s a great question. Do you know who asked it? It sounds rather Shakespearean, doesn’t it? It’s got a touch of the – ‘that which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet’ - about it. 

But not so.  

Interestingly, it was Albert Einstein who asked this question. He asked it again and again – unable to relax into any answer his contemporaries could offer him. He thought, at least initially, that he was asking a question about quantum physics. But he wasn’t; not really. Einstein was asking what it means to exist, what it means to be. 

And that means that he was actually asking a theological question. And I, for one, would appreciate it if we would get into the habit of asking it too, just phrased a little differently. I’d like us to ask something a little like:  

Do you really believe that the person only exists when you text them back?’ 

Yes, I’m imploring us all to take an Einstein-esque approach to the phenomenon of ‘ghosting’.  

Ghosting, just to make sure that we’re all one the same page, is the act of abruptly and completely cutting off all forms of contact with another person, offering no form of prior warning nor any kind of subsequent explanation. To ghost someone is to perform a social cut and run, a relational dine-and-dash, if you will. This, of course, can happen in all kinds of contexts – in work situations, in friendships, and in the most niche of circumstances. There’s an incredibly popular podcast, the title of which – ‘My Therapist Ghosted Me’ - is a tongue in cheek reference to one of the presenters being inexplicably cut off by their own therapist. Ouch.

And so, ghosting causes a social injury, it inflicts a heart wound. Being ghosted, we are coming to realise, is a rejection of the most absolute kind.

But where this phenomenon is reaching astounding heights is in the context of romantic relationships. The technological age in which we live, where the majority of romantic relationships are now being initiated and established online, has meant that we’ve got ghosting down to a fine art. It’s become all too easy. And apparently, nobody is immune.  

Just recently, Billie Eilish – Oscar and Grammy award winning musical genius and all-round cultural icon - explained how she had recently been the victim of an almighty ghosting. She said,  

‘it was insane. I was like – “did you die? Have you literally died?” It was somebody that I’d known for years, we had a plan (to meet) and the day of… nothing. I never heard from him again.’ 

Imagine being ignored so suddenly and completely that your first instinct is that the person must have died, only to realise – they hadn’t died, you were just disposable to them. This is happening all of the time, there’s a generation of people who are having their sense of self and of the ‘other’ defined by this very phenomenon. 

What’s incredibly interesting is that in the span of a few short years, psychologists and relationship therapists have gone from speaking of ‘ghosting’ in terms of emotional immaturity, conflict avoidance and a lack of communication skills, to regarding it as a form of cruelty and even abuse.  

It is not primarily the intent of the ‘ghost’ that is causing psychologists to speak of ghosting in increasingly serious terms. Most ‘ghosts’ are cowardly, perhaps, but not sheer evil. Rather, it is the extraordinary depths of hurt that the behaviour inflicts (intended or not) upon the person who has been victim to it.  

We are learning that there are all manner of harmful things that ghosting does to our brains and all kinds messages that it sends to our self-esteem. Namely, that we weren’t enough for that person, that we’ve failed somehow, that we’re disposable, that we misread the situation, that we misread them, that we’re deficient in almost every kind of way.  

These lies inevitably fill the gaps left by the silence of the other person. False explanations, usually of the most self-depreciating kind, take advantage of that fact that no explanation was offered by the person who hurt us. The bewilderment itself becomes a form of torture. And so, ghosting causes a social injury, it inflicts a heart wound. Being ghosted, we are coming to realise, is a rejection of the most absolute kind.  

Ghosting is the symptom of a society in which we kid ourselves into thinking that people only come to life when our thoughts turn to them or our eyes rest on them.

But I think there’s even more to it. And this is where I return to Einstein’s question, and my modern, admittedly much less cosmic, re-imagining of it. Because underneath it all, I think that ghosting is a theological issue.  

To ghost someone is to act as if they do not exist because you have averted your gaze from them. It is, therefore, to deprive them of the fullness of their existence. Or, at least, to deny it. It is an act of deep diminishment. Do we really believe that the moon only exists when it is looked upon? Ghosting forces us to similarly ask – do we believe that we only exist when we are looked upon?  

So, you see, it goes deep. It cuts to the core of what it means to be.  

Ghosting is the symptom of a society in which we kid ourselves into thinking that people only come to life when our thoughts turn to them or our eyes rest on them. If we can’t see the suffering we’ve caused, it isn’t happening. If we’ve cut someone out of our life, they aren’t existing. At least, we can behave as if they aren’t.  

One could argue that it’s a form of dehumanization, one that’s hidden in plain sight.  

And that, alongside all of the other reasons (or perhaps undergirding them), is the reason that I think being ghosted cuts us to the core; it brings into question the very reality of our existence.  

‘Do you really believe that the moon only exists when you look at it?’ 

Einstein’s question may feel a little abstract but it’s actually as tangible and personal as it gets. 

Article
Books
Culture
Sustainability
Wildness
7 min read

Wild writers for those who wish to wonder

A wilderness reader for wintertime and beyond

Elizabeth Wainwright is a writer, coach and walking guide. She's a former district councillor and has a background in international development.

Sheep around a frozen pond in a snowy landscape, a ruined cottage sits beyond.
Winter near Brno, Czechia.
Tomas Tuma on Unsplash.

We live in a time of decreasing biodiversity, reduced access to wilderness, and worsening mental health, and these things are, I think, linked. I wrote a bit about this recently. We are intimately tied to wilderness. We evolved on a diverse, living planet – not separate to it, but in it, dependent on it. It can be easy to forget this in part because we manipulate the world with lights and schedules and ideas of progress; we seal ourselves away in the walls of home, of work, of shops. Some of us live within the walls of church, too – disconnecting us from a wild God who increasingly to me seems most at home under the loud silence of the stars, and in the way the setting sun points to beauty before darkness, and in the way two people can bask in each other’s hearts. When I encounter love, and the loveliness of the world, I also encounter God.   

We are good at taking for granted the strange beauty of the planet. We are good at forgetting how to sit with wonder, how to even access it. The poetry of the Psalms tells us that “…they forgot what he had done, the wonders he had shown them...”  We must restore not only the living breathing wilderness of the planet we live in and on, but also our own ability to feel wonder, because this can be a first step towards feeling, caring, and acting.  

There are writers I turn to when I need to remember the diverse wildness and unlikeliness of our planet that is, as far as we so far know, an island of life in a cold and vast universe. When I read them, I wonder at our shared earth, at our hearts, and at the mysterious holiness of it all. Here then, some of those wild writers:  

Wendell Berry has influenced the way I interact with my locality, my faith, my responsibility to the earth I stand on. He is the author of essays, poetry, non-fiction and novels, but he is also a farmer in Kentucky. His preferred tools are a pencil and a team of work horses. For decades, his tending of both words and soil have each strengthened the other. His writing is rooted in the particularity of place, and through that, he speaks to the universality of our shared existence. His voice is incisive and honest, clear-eyed but full of a well-worn love. His call to a more localised and rooted way of life is not a call to escape, but to encounter – with beauty, with neighbour, with a spirit that breathes life through it all. In recent years, his writings have found new audiences. A good place to start, is The World Ending Fire: The Essential Wendell Berry. It contains a selection of his essays written over decades – essays that call out ideas of endless progress and the unthinkingness that feeds it. From here, you might turn to other collections like The Unsettling of America, or The Art of the Commonplace. His poems are earthy and beautiful – look at The Peace of Wild Things And Other Poems. For fiction, his best-known works are Jayber Crow and Hannah Coulter, rooted in the complexity of people and their community. At a time in which our planet burns faster than ever, his writing is prophetic and honest, yet braided with grace and love.  

The World Ending Fire is curated and has an introduction by Paul Kingsnorth: a writer I increasingly turn to. His story travels a path from environmental activism via explorations of various beliefs (including Wicca, Paganism, and Buddhism) to a recent – and unexpected to both him and many of his readers – conversion to Christianity. His journey is recounted in his essay, The Cross and the Machine. In his popular newsletter, The Abbey of Misrule, he writes essays that explore deep ecology, and ideas of a wild God, and of early Christian mystics who seemed much closer to the earth than many modern Christians do. His background in environmental activism still echoes – he cares for the world deeply, but his writing now, like his contemporary Dougald Hine, faces what might come when modern life as we know it becomes untenable. Like Berry, Kingsnorth brings an honesty to his writing that is often challenging to sit with. His collection of essays and talks, Confessions of a Recovering Environmentalist, was key in my own journey. He also writes fiction, set in a strange, old England. And his short book Savage Gods, in his words, “…marks a break in my writing, my style and my worldview. This slim semi-memoir is one long question about the value of writing itself, and about what it means to belong, or not to.”  

Another writer of honesty and clarity is Marylinne Robinson. She is a social critic and novelist, perhaps Gilead being her most well-known book. Her latest book, Reading Genesis, is an interpretation of the book of Genesis. She takes words that are often interpreted in two-dimensional ways and makes them come alive. She speaks not just to the complexities of faith, but of what it is to be human in this world. Throughout her work more broadly, nature is a recurring theme, symbolising beauty but also fragility, and pointing to wonder and to our own inner state.  

The late and beloved Mary Oliver points to the luminosity of the world. Whether small creature or vast landscape, she invites us to slow down and really look. She insists again and again that we “Pay attention. Be astonished. Tell about it.” Often, her writing helps me to touch the interconnectedness of the living world, and of our humanity. Each fragment she shows us feels part of a larger whole she is also pointing to, and for which she regularly expresses gratitude, inviting the readers to consider “what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?” A good place to start is with Devotions, a collection of her most loved poems, or with Upstream, a mix of poetry and essays. Here, in the details of her daily walks and reflections, Oliver manages to conjure awe and a sense of the sacred.  

Another author who is extraordinarily attentive to the natural world is Annie Dillard. Her rapturous wonderings and explorations of world and place and self, link to deeper reflections, and often to the divine. Like Oliver, Dillard values specifics: “The sheer fringe and network of detail assumes primary importance. That there are so many details seems to be the most important and visible fact about creation.” Dillard weaves her senses with her reading, and often her humour, zooming out and reminding us that “the universe has continued to deal exclusively in extravagances, flinging intricacies and colossi down aeons of emptiness.” Her 1975 Pulitzer prizewinning Pilgrim at Tinker Creek is perhaps her best-known work, but a good place to start is Teaching a Stone to Talk; a slim collection of essays that begin with her observations of natural phenomena but end up encompassing the wilds of her mind and of its “ultimate concerns.”  

Poet, author, musician and playwright Joy Harjo was the first Native American to hold the position of Poet Laureate. She is a member of the Mvskoke Nation, and often explores themes of identity, history and social justice. Harjo weaves together past, present and future, linking our innate holiness with the natural world. A good place to start is the personal collection Conflict Resolution for Holy Beings, or for an insight into her life, try Poet Warrior which brings together memoir, poetry and song, singing often of regeneration in the face of darkness.   

A few others you might naturally turn to from these authors include the late essayist Barry Lopez (his last remarkable collection published in 2022 is Embrace Fearlessly the Burning World), novelist and essayist Ursula K Le Guin (her Earthsea trilogy is fantasy but offers I think a profound reflection on who we are), and Robert Macfarlane, who writes thoughtfully of nature and myth, inner and outer landscape. And the old Psalmists tell of beauty and wonder: Psalm 104, in the New King James version, contains leviathans and rock badgers, lions and moons, trees and humans, all of it singing together the great song of life – a life that is precious, earthy and holy; a life woven by a God who we hear in Genesis say, “let us make mankind in our image, according to our likeness.” God is plural, as diverse as his creation. I am grateful for the writers, just a few of whom I’ve shared here, who help me to pay attention to the diverse and strange beauty of the world, and through that, help me see its luminous holiness. That holiness – wholeness – depends on all of us, all of creation, being able to be itself. As Mary Oliver says:  

“…Whoever you are, no matter how lonely, 
the world offers itself to your imagination, 
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting – 
over and over announcing your place 
in the family of things.”