Glimmers, Disco Balls, and the Truth About Joy
Honestly, all of my blog posts could start that way. But here’s the thought that’s been buzzing around my brain lately:
What if we’ve got the whole idea of happiness wrong?
When I picture “happiness,” I see sunshine, butterflies, people laughing, vivid colours, and nothing going wrong. That’s the story we’ve been sold—this flawless, joy-drenched vibe we’re all supposed to be chasing. Like, if you're not glowing like Guy Diamond (I see you, Trolls fans), are you even happy?
We’re told this is what we should strive for. That this is the meaning of life. And yeah, living like that would be lovely. But also—hear me out—unrealistic. And honestly? More than a little unfulfilling.
It’s the “Thank goodness it’s Friday” mentality. The inner monologue that says, “Just get through this week, and then the good stuff starts.” The magical version of Saturday is always coming… eventually. And everything else? In the immortal words of 2000s heartthrob Daniel Bedingfield:
“I gotta get through this.”
Are we wishing our lives away for an auto-tuned version of joy?
(I do love Guy Diamond, honestly.)
What if happiness isn’t the goal?
What if the thing we’re really craving is contentment—and happiness is just contentment with added disco lights?
Glimmers vs Disco Balls
We’ve talked about glimmers before—those tiny moments when you feel safe, calm, or deeply present. I think those are the disco lights. Not flashy. Just gently sparkling reminders that you’re okay.
The icing on the cake of life, if you will.
Even writing this sounds a little woo-woo to me—and I love a bit of woo—but stay with me.
Scene 1: Garden Musings & Magpie Sidequests
I was having breakfast in the garden yesterday morning. I’ve made a no-phone, no-reading rule for breakfast, so I was just there. Listening to birds. Tasting my food. Watching the light.
There’s a giant tree behind my garden where a family of magpies live. Some people hate magpies—I find them fascinating. (As usual, a side note that may or may not be relevant. But you know how my brain works.)
Anyway, the tree blocks out the morning sun. At first, I caught myself wishing it wasn’t there because I love sun on my skin. But then I thought… if the sun was too strong, my dogs wouldn’t want to be out with me. I’d be overheating, squinting, needing to grab sunglasses.
And suddenly it clicked:
In that moment, with the shade, the breeze, and my dogs beside me, I was content. I wouldn’t change a thing.
Scene 2: Jiujitsu & the Joy of Getting Squished
This morning I was at jiujitsu—hot, sweaty, just me and five guys, each outweighing me by at least 35kg. Could I be crushed like a dainty daisy? Absolutely.
So I stopped trying to “win” and just started playing.
I gave them what they wanted (thanks, Coach), experimented, laughed, messed up, and got into some weird positions—both good and bad. It was fun. They laughed. I laughed. I learned. And again—I wouldn’t change a thing.
Scene 3: Traffic, Podcasts & Pelvic Floor Gains
Driving home, I had a ton to do but was completely engrossed in a podcast (shoutout Mammoth Club and their Jumanji episode). So engrossed, I missed my usual right turn and ended up in the school-run traffic zone.
Cue the stress: tight chest, annoyed belly, warm face.
But then I noticed…
I was listening to something I loved. My boys were snoozing in the back. The car was comfy. And I was—no joke—doing pelvic floor work at a red light like the multitasking goddess I am.
And again: I wouldn’t change a thing.
The Realisation
There are moments in every situation where contentment lives.
At your desk? Maybe it’s the coffee. Or the breeze. Or the fact that you finally get to wear that new jumper because the office AC is set to Expedition Everest.
On the school run? Maybe it’s your daughter belting out “We Don’t Talk About Bruno” like her life depends on it—for the 115th time.
At the gym? Maybe it’s just knowing no one will ask you “Where are my socks?” for the next hour.
These aren’t the highlight reel.
These are the good bits.
Final Thought
Contentment is quiet.
It doesn’t sparkle.
It glows.
And maybe glimmers aren’t just stepping stones to happiness.
Maybe they are happiness. The real kind.
But I think we need a new word.
Not glimmers. Not sparks. Those are the breakthroughs that get you to a place you can feel what I am talking about.
Let’s call them tranquilities—the calm, grounded reminders that you’re already okay. Already whole. Already home.
Already enough.
I know it’s not a word yet.
But it will be.