The Ghosts Movement did not arrive all at once.
It grew quietly, over time.
Through conversations, quiet observations, and a feeling that something vital was being forgotten in the way we live, remember, and let go.

It began with a small project I created years ago, called It Might Never Happen.
I helped people write their autobiographies, not to publish, but to pass on. The books were born from conversation, shaped not by plot, but by presence. They were often created for family, for the next generation. A way to leave something behind in case it never got said out loud. The stories weren’t loud either. They surfaced slowly, in the details, in a teacup, a scar, a forgotten song.

As part of that same work, I often supported people through the process of downsizing, sometimes after the loss of a loved one, or simply a turning point in life. There were always certain objects they couldn’t bear to part with. A 1970s ashtray. A cracked mug. A mix tape with no label. These things had no monetary value, but they were anchors for memory. And if the story could be shared, written down, spoken, or passed on, the object could be released. Meaning made space.

Many people also wished to include Letters of Wishes alongside their wills, notes explaining the story behind an item, who it belonged to, and why it mattered. A broken cassette, if it came with a story, became something precious. A photograph became sacred if it arrived with a sentence. And in that space between memory and inheritance, I began to see it clearly: we weren’t just storing memory, we were transmitting it. And very few people were being shown how.

At the same time, I was moving through my own quiet unraveling. I had explored many paths, practical, spiritual, psychological. All of them offered something useful. But none fully honoured the sacrament of memory. None quite showed how to hold the past and future in the present moment, not as a concept, but as a lived and felt reality.

It was around this time, during a particularly difficult period in my life, that I created a coping mechanism I came to call spin worms.
They were a strange invention, small imagined creatures that arrived when negative or intrusive thoughts tried to take hold. But rather than crush the thought or push it away, these worms would spin it, gently twisting its shape before it could burrow into my mind. They didn’t fight the darkness. They danced with it. They turned fear into presence. They turned pain into something more bearable. Spin worms helped me stay whole.

Over time, I began to spin less.
Spinning is a powerful tool, but it takes energy. I realised that not every thought needed reshaping. Some things could simply pass through. I began to hold both light and dark without rushing to fix either. A quiet kind of acceptance emerged, not surrender, not detachment, but presence. A gentler, more grounded rhythm.

I remember one moment vividly. I was standing on a crowded train. Everyone around me was silent, lost in their screens. But I was suddenly overwhelmed by love, for all of them. Strangers. Each one with a name, a history, a heartbreak. Even the person at the checkout, they enter your life for just a few minutes. But that matters. These are the echoes. This is what I wanted to remember.

The Ghosts Movement emerged from this blend: autobiography, legacy, presence, memory, and a deep love for people’s untold stories.
It is not a religion. Not a therapy. Not a doctrine.

It is a quiet practice of noticing. Of remembering.
Of walking gently across time.

It is for those who have felt meaning in a forgotten place.
For those who carry both light and shadow.
For those who know that what we hold, and what we let go, still echoes.

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