Caspering: The Opposite of Ghosting

Why the loneliest part of creating isn't the work—it's having no one to witness it

This month on HUSH, I’m exploring the theme of being a sensitive soul creator,
and how the solitude of creating can often be very lonely.

Did I say something? Was I too much? Did they forget about me? Are they mad? Have I been. . . gulp. . . GHOSTED?

With my parents in Arizona for the winter, and my one-local brother too busy and too tired as a professional baker to celebrate with us, I purposely made a few plans with close local friends for the holidays. One by one, they canceled for various reasons. Every social engagement I scheduled for the month of December canceled!

Then, my Substack got quiet. I watched while my friends and cohort members started getting dozens and even hundreds of likes and comments, while my metrics dwindled into the single digits, dangerously dancing with the dreaded void.

I get it, the holiday season is a lot. And I shouldn’t take any one of these cancelations or silences personally. But, my brain still did what sensitive brains do best, over-thinking, over-feeling, and over-analyzing.

Sometimes, silence is just so fucking LOUD. That’s the thing about being ghosted. My mind, and the constant tinnitus ringing in my ears fills the ghosting gaps, writing stories about why I’m too much or not enough or some impossible combination of both.

So this year, I leaned into it and self-isolated —on purpose. GiggleBumps (my nickname for Goddess) agreed with me and gave me sub-zero temps, freezing rain, and blizzard weather to make it extra easy to just stay in and binge Gilmore Girls.

Fine, if I am not meant to be social, I’ll be creative.

I tackled creative projects that had been hibernating in my back brain for years:

• I hot-glue-gunned a couple dozen rhinestoned owls I had acquired at an estate sale to my bathroom mirror.

• I watched YouTube tutorials to learn how to sketch a tiny mouse, and fox, and owl so that I could paint them in corners of various rooms of my house.

• I rearranged and painted my office and ordered a giant oak tree wall decal so I can hang my ancestor pictures on a proper family tree.

And now, since my book club and game night gatherings this week both canceled (they did not ghost me…no, this is not ghosting…seriously, not ghosting), I’m secretly looking forward to my house-cleaner to come tomorrow to see if she will say anything about my owl-bedazzled bathroom mirror!

Being a creator is lonely.

Let’s be honest, creating is fun and all, but the real fun comes with the glimmer that happens when you share your creation with others. And if there is no one there to receive it, creating becomes very very lonely.

Did you know that a glimmer is the opposite of a trigger?

While a trigger activates the nervous system into anxiety, a glimmer activates the nervous system into glee. It’s that tingle, shimmer, giggle, and spark that happens inside your body when something feels utterly joyful.

If there’s a word for the opposite of a trigger, what’s the opposite of ghosting?

If ghosting is when someone disappears and you’re left in the void, filling in the gaps with your worst thoughts, what exactly is the opposite of that? It doesn’t feel right to say that the opposite of ghosting is showing up loudly. It’s not someone demanding your attention or performing their presence. The opposite of ghosting is something quieter. Gentler. More subtle.

I wracked my brain for linguistic terms than might fit, but they all fell down the rabbit hole of my own over-thinking. So I asked AI: anchoring, lanterning, enlightening…none of those suggestions gave me any kind of glimmer.

So, I asked my Hobbit-husband. His associative creative lyric writing mind would know. And know he did.

Caspering! Like Casper the Friendly Ghost.

That quiet little presence that says: I’m here. You’re good. I see you.

Caspering is the text-message or email that lands at exactly the right moment. The person who says “I’ve been thinking about what you said” three weeks later. The quiet nod of recognition that tells you yes, this thing you’re making matters. The voice that doesn’t interrupt your process—it just witnesses it.

As you know, I have tinnitus and hyperacusis. I don’t need more noise in my world. We sensitive souls don’t need more broadcasts, more performances, more people shouting into the void.

We need Caspers.

We need people who show up gently, consistently, quietly. Who see us without demanding anything in return. Who hold our creations like newborn babies and celebrate them just for being made and for what they might eventually become.

A Casper is someone asks about your project and actually remembers it the next week. A Casper says “tell me more about that” and you realize oh, this idea has legs.

When we have Caspers in our life as creators, we stop second-guessing ourselves as much because we have witnesses. With Caspers around, our creative momentum feels grounded, safe, and sustainable. Caspers tell us that we can make things and not disappear into the void. We can share our craft and trust it will land somewhere.

Sensitive souls don’t disappear when they’re ghosted into the dreaded void. We just need a place where we’re quietly, consistently seen. Where the silence doesn’t echo. Where we remember: we’re not alone in this work. We never were.

The Creator Retreat🌳 is a room full of Caspers. Do you want to be one of us sensitive soul creators giving each other daily glimmers?

Applications for 2026 Cohort are now open.