Self-Initiated Glimmers

Some glimmers arrive unexpectedly — a kind word from a stranger, a soft look, a moment of connection that catches me off guard and soothes something I didn’t know was raw.

But more often lately, the glimmers are ones I’ve made.

Not forced. Not manufactured. But chosen.

Like standing in a garage, expecting dismissal or disinterest, only to be met with respect. I walk in prepared for the worst — for the old story to repeat. That I’m an inconvenience. That they’re avoiding me. That they don’t like me.

And then… they’re kind. Helpful. Human.
And I realize: maybe I’m not the boy standing alone in the corner anymore. Maybe the way I carry myself now — with quiet integrity — is enough to shape how I’m received.

That’s a glimmer.

So is chopping wood without overthinking it.
Ordering fence panels not because I need to control the outcome, but because I trust myself to choose.
Clearing the boot of my car because I respect my own space — even when no one else is watching.

They’re not flashy. They don’t come with a soundtrack or epiphany.
But they accumulate.
Each one a small, sacred act of reclaiming.

I used to think healing would feel like lightning. But it feels more like this — a soft rebuild. A string of self-initiated glimmers. A quiet decision, again and again, to treat myself like I matter.

And maybe the more I do that, the less I need the world to prove it to me.