The Glimmer That Grew Legs

I wasn’t a dog person.

Not in the way people talk about their dogs like children or soulmates or four-legged therapists. I liked dogs. Admired them from a polite distance. But I wasn’t looking. I wasn’t scrolling adoption pages. I wasn’t dreaming of leashes and treats and muddy paw prints.

And yet—one evening, scrolling Facebook half-distracted, there she was.

Gypsy.

A rescue in upstate New York had posted her photo. I don’t even remember what the caption said. I just remember the feeling.

A full-body yes.

It wasn’t logic. It wasn’t planning. It wasn’t sensible or practical. It was a Glimmer.

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What’s a Glimmer?

A glimmer is the opposite of a trigger. It’s a subtle, often fleeting moment when something inside you softens—when the nervous system exhales, even if only slightly.

A glimmer might arrive as a patch of golden light on the floor, the lilt of a familiar voice, a dog resting her chin on your foot. It doesn’t shout. It doesn’t demand. It simply offers.

The term comes from therapist Deb Dana’s work in polyvagal theory ~ which teaches us how our bodies sense safety and connection. Glimmers are nearly imperceptible nudges that say, psst ~ Hey, this is safe, this is good, you’re okay here.

Sometimes they show up in a photo you weren’t looking for.
Sometimes they grow legs.

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I applied immediately, heart racing, like I was chasing something that belonged to me, but if I didn’t act quickly, someone else would scoop her up.

And maybe that’s what true instinct feels like—not decision, but recognition, “I MUST act”'.

A month later, she was home with me in New Milford, and it was like she always had been there.

Now, she’s my companion—in the car, at the office, on early morning walks when the world still feels like a secret.

She’s a dream on road trips. Just settles in and rides, like she was born to be going somewhere.

She’s so well-behaved I forget dogs even chew things. I can leave a shoe, a remote, even snacks on the floor—and she won’t touch them.

When my sister’s dog grabbed my ballet slipper, I gasped like it was an act of vandalism, haha. I forgot that’s normal dog behavior.

Some people think Gypsy’s aloof. I don’t.

She stays near but never clingy. Keeps a respectful distance, always watching—like a quiet guardian. My guardian.

Untrained or high-energy dogs make me nervous. I get jangly, as Mommy would say, when they’re bouncing off the walls or barking without reason. I used to think I just wasn’t a dog person, but what I really meant was: I didn’t want to be around high-strung energy. My nervous system overreacts.

Gypsy helps me regulate. She’s calm, grounded, quietly attuned. Being around her is like being in the eye of a storm that never comes.

And through her stillness, I’ve learned to how to cultivate and develop my own, now having people tell me how just being around me, calms them down.

That might be the glimmer I was chasing all along.

Thank you for reading!

Feel free to drop me line - I’ll answer back! And hey Maxwell - I got your email - thanks for taking the time to reply - I appreciate it ✨