Returning to the Shimmer: On the Longing for Home

Some of us carry a memory without a clear shape, a feeling that once passed through us, not tied to any single event, yet more vivid than many things we can actually name. It’s the memory of feeling fully alive, deeply real, connected in a way that feels elusive now. Maybe it came in a dream, or beneath a wide-open sky. Maybe it was nestled in a conversation so rich and open it felt timeless. Perhaps it surfaced in the gentle clarity after heartbreak, or in the presence of something sacred and mysterious. However it arrived, it left behind a trace, an ache, a shimmer whose absence now feels sharper than any tangible loss.

The Quiet Grief of Forgetting

This longing isn’t a mistake. It’s not a flaw in the wiring of our brains or a failure to adapt. It’s a memory, held deeply in the body, of being allowed to simply exist without shrinking, without hiding, without careful calculation. The absence of that permission, of that sense of spaciousness, can feel like a quiet grief. We can’t quite remember what it was, but we know exactly when it’s gone. Life without it can feel thin, dulled somehow, like something essential got muted or forgotten.

In the face of this loss, we often try desperately to recreate the feeling, chasing intensity, seeking out moments or situations that might briefly reawaken it. But more often than not, these pursuits leave us feeling even emptier, chasing shadows of something we can’t quite grasp. Eventually, many of us quietly give up, turning instead toward fantasy, not because we’re weak, but because fantasy offers a safe place to hold what feels too fragile or risky to express openly. Fantasy becomes the guardian of our tenderness, our wildness, the parts of ourselves that aren’t sure they can bear rejection or disappointment again.

Yet fantasy alone can’t truly nourish us. It preserves something precious, but it doesn’t sustain life in the ways we need. It keeps us safe, but it doesn’t awaken us. So we live in this tension, yearning for something vivid and real, yet hesitant to reach fully toward it, fearing the cost might be too great. To cope, we subtly manage our distance from the world, carefully moderating interactions, calibrating our expectations, and holding back just enough to remain protected. This isn’t cowardice; it’s wisdom born from experience. It’s the intelligence of a nervous system that learned long ago that full aliveness might feel dangerous, overwhelming, or unwelcome.

Gentle Invitations Back to Yourself

But something within us refuses to settle fully into that safety. From time to time, it stirs gently, softly, insistently, reminding us there was once more to life. It whispers through a quiet ache, through fleeting moments that feel just a bit deeper or richer than usual, saying simply, “There’s more here. There’s more to you than this.” And gradually, carefully, the question arises: How do I return?

This return doesn’t come from force or frantic searching. It happens gently, almost imperceptibly, thread by thread. It comes through small openings: noticing the warmth of your own hand resting on your chest for just a moment longer, feeling a single breath actually reach your belly, or seeing a tree as something alive rather than merely part of the scenery. These tiny moments don’t need to be profound or clear; you don’t even need to immediately feel good. They are quiet invitations back into relationship with yourself, with your body, and with the present moment.

The slow path home doesn’t ask you to be certain or have immediate answers. It simply asks you to remain curious, gentle, and willing to be surprised. It invites you to consider that perhaps the shimmer never fully left you, it was simply waiting, patiently, for permission to be felt again. Maybe it’s less about rediscovering something lost and more about remembering something already here, waiting quietly beneath the surface.

And you may not feel ready yet. That’s okay. Wanting to feel ready is already a beginning. Hoping for a way back is itself a thread. Even the faintest memory of wholeness is enough.

Already on the Way Home

You are not broken for longing, nor foolish for seeking more from life. You’re simply someone who remembers something true and vital, and who is learning slowly, imperfectly, courageously to return.

You’re not alone in this remembering. There are others who feel it too, walking parallel paths, quietly weaving their way home. Even in your uncertainty, you’re already moving toward something more real, something shimmering softly beneath everyday life. Keep going, each small step brings you closer to the kind of aliveness you’ve always known was possible.