The Feeling Before the Word

I don’t know when it started.

Maybe it was before the accident. Maybe it came afterwards. Or maybe it has always been there, and I simply didn’t notice it before.

I’ve asked many people what it is called, but no one has given me the same answer. Perhaps you know the word for it.

What is it?

When I stand by the water’s edge watching the sunrise, I feel it — just for a fleeting moment.

A beautiful sunrise over the frozen Ottawa River.

When I see a rainbow, I feel it.

When the moon hangs in the sky and looks especially beautiful, I feel it again.

When I notice an animal or a bird quietly existing in its natural habitat, I feel it.

The feeling never lasts long. It’s like a small jump in my heart. A tiny wow in my mind. A moment of peace that arrives without warning and disappears just as quickly.

Some people have suggested that the word for it is awe. But for me, awe feels like something the brain labels afterwards. This feeling comes before that — before language, before explanation. It feels instinctual, almost like the body recognises something before the mind catches up.

And sometimes it appears when the moment itself isn’t obviously extraordinary. Occasionally, I feel it just before something difficult happens, though it does seem to come more strongly when something is beautiful or meaningful.

Others have suggested words like tender, mesmerising, sacred, or even communion. But those words suggest something that lingers. Something that lasts.

This doesn’t last.

This is a delicate, fleeting spark.

For that reason, I don’t think it’s flow either. I can recognise when I’m in a state of flow, and that can last for quite some time. Flow is something we can intentionally move toward. We can seek it.

Hummingbird moth

This feeling cannot be sought.

In fact, I suspect that trying to reach for it might stop it from happening at all. The moment you grasp for it, it slips away. It seems to arrive only when you aren’t expecting it.

Someone once described it as the feeling of having your breath taken away. That comes close, but I still wonder:

Is there a word for the moment before the mind understands what it is seeing?

A word for that instinctive spark — the tiny pause where something inside you recognises the beauty or significance of a moment before your conscious mind has time to name it?

When I asked someone who works with energy, she suggested that perhaps the word I’m looking for is “glimmer.” Glimmers are small, personal micro-moments that foster a sense of safety, connection, and calm, gently activating the parasympathetic nervous system. She described them as the opposite of triggers. While triggers can send us into stress or fear, glimmers quietly guide us back toward steadiness and ease.

Perhaps this is the word we use.

Or perhaps there is another one still waiting to be discovered.

One thing is certain — I will definitely be learning more about glimmers, and I will continue to enjoy that brief, beautiful feeling whenever it appears… whatever it may be called.