Some stories don’t end when the book closes.
They echo.
They settle into the marrow.
They pass down through lullabies, side glances, and the silences between words.
Here in Scotland, where the veil is never all that thick, I grew up knowing we’re not alone. There’s a presence in the mist, in the ruins, in the stillness between loch and moor. Whether we welcome them or not, we live beside our ghosts.
But what if grief isn’t something to outrun or silence?
What if it’s not a shadow to be shunned, but an ancient messenger?
A whisper that calls us back to something sacred?
Maybe grief isn’t the end of the story. Maybe it’s an invitation.
To sit by the hearth of memory.
To tend to what’s been neglected.
To heal what was never given the chance.
The Ghosts We Carry
Scottish folklore is full of ghosts and not all of them are out for vengeance or to give folk a fright. Many are watchers, protectors, or mourners. They linger because something was left undone, unsaid, or unhealed.
Take the White Lady of Stirling Castle. She’s been seen for generations, drifting through cold stone corridors, wrapped in sorrow, clad in white. Some say she grieves a lost love. Others claim she’s mourning a life stolen too soon. But perhaps, she’s carrying something deeper, a wound that never found a voice.
And maybe she’s not just haunting the castle.
Maybe she’s a reflection of our own hidden grief, the version of ourselves still wandering some inner hallway, clutching memories we’ve not had the space or safety to feel.
Grief, after all, isn’t always dramatic or loud. Sometimes it’s quiet. Sometimes it waits decades to be heard.
Grief as Shadow: The Wounds We Inherit
Grief doesn’t always wear the face of death.
Sometimes it shows up as:
~ The dream you never dared follow.
~ The part of yourself you tucked away to keep the peace.
~ The stories your ancestors never told because they weren’t safe to share.
~ The silence that settles in families like a fog no one names.
This is what we meet in shadow work. It’s not about fixing ourselves, it’s about turning towards what’s been hidden and saying:
“I see you. You make sense. You still belong.”
It’s not always easy. There’s grief in the process, grief for what could’ve been, for what was taken, or for what was never even imagined.
But there’s beauty in that too. Because when we hold space for these forgotten parts, we don’t just heal our own wounds, we start to tend to the generations behind us.
The Bones Remember: Ancestral Threads in Scottish Lore
In traditional Scottish belief, the dead were never far.
They were honoured, not feared.
Remembered, not erased.
We left chairs empty at Hogmanay.
We whispered their names in blessings.
We sang laments - caoineadh - not just to grieve, but to heal. These weren’t performances. They were rituals. Medicine wrapped in melody.
There’s a tale of the Bean Nighe, a ghostly washerwoman seen near lonely rivers and fords. She wrings out the bloodied clothes of those fated to die. At first glance, she’s terrifying. But dig a little deeper, and her presence becomes something more nuanced.
In some versions, if you approach her with compassion, she might speak to you. She might tell you what’s coming or help you change it.
She reminds us that grief isn’t always a dead end. It can be a guide. A warning. A bridge. Sometimes, even a blessing in disguise.
We may not meet the Bean Nighe on our morning walks, but we still encounter her spirit when something in us senses a change, a loss, or a reckoning before it arrives. The question is: will we turn away, or will we lean in?
A Candle Ritual for Ancestral Healing
If you’ve been feeling the weight of something unnamed or like there’s a grief you inherited but never understood, this ritual might help bring clarity, connection, or simply comfort.
It’s not about doing it “right.” It’s about showing up with intention.
You’ll need:
~ A white or black candle (for peace, protection, and clarity)
~ A bowl of water (for cleansing and emotional flow)
~ An object that ties you to your lineage
(this could be a photo, a name written on paper, a stone from your homeland, a piece of jewellery, or anything that feels meaningful)
The Steps:
~ Set the scene.
Dim the lights. Create a space that feels safe and quiet. Take a few slow, grounding breaths.
~ Build your altar.
Place your object beside the candle. Set the bowl of water in front of them both.
~ Light the candle.
As the flame flickers, speak aloud:
“To the ones who came before me,
I see your grief. I honour your story.
What was lost, I now remember.
What was silenced, I now give voice.
You are not forgotten.”
~ Sit with the stillness.
Let any emotions rise. You don’t need to name or understand them. Just allow them. Breathe. Witness.
~ Anoint your heart.
Dip your fingers in the water and touch the centre of your chest. Say:
“Let healing flow through my line.
Let peace return to our bones.”
~ Close the ritual.
Blow out the candle. Offer thanks to your ancestors, to the unseen, to yourself.
This isn’t just about honouring the dead. It’s about remembering that you are part of something bigger. A thread in a tapestry that stretches far beyond your own lifetime.
You Are the Living Altar
Grief is sacred. It’s not a flaw or a failure, it’s love with nowhere to land. It’s the echo of connection. The mark of meaning.
In a world that hurries us past our pain, Scottish wisdom teaches us to slow down. To sit with it. To feel it fully. To let the land and the stories and the spirits hold us while we do.
You don’t have to carry it alone. And you don’t have to make sense of it all at once.
Sometimes, the healing starts simply by remembering.
So light the candle. Tell the story. Touch the stone. And let your bones remember what they were never meant to forget.
P.S. If this stirred something in you, if you feel the pull of ancestral stories, shadow work, or soulful rituals, you might enjoy my Sacred Sundays letters. Every week, I send a wee note filled with folklore, tarot, healing practices and the kind of reflections that feel like a warm cup by the fire.
Join the circle here → [Sacred Sundays Letters]