Month: June 2025

Surfing the Weight: How to Hold Steady When You’re Holding It All

Posted on by Kerri Elizabeth

There comes a time when you’re asked to carry more than usual—when your strength is not an option but a necessity. You’re the anchor, the support beam, the space-holder. And in the quiet of that responsibility, your own voice feels muffled. You’re asked to say less, allow more, and hold steady while someone you love fights a battle that isn’t yours to fix.

But where do you go with the rising tide inside you?

When your own emotions have no safe landing, when your celebrations are whispered and your struggles swallowed, when you’re waiting and then waiting again… it’s easy to feel invisible. Unacknowledged. Alone.

You may feel like a stranger in your own environment—holding back tears while offering smiles, suppressing your ache to be present for theirs. It can feel like every part of you is being asked to expand, stretch, and bend without breaking… and still be okay.

But what if okay isn’t the goal?

What if, instead, it’s about honoring the weight you’re carrying?

Because there will be times when you’re holding more than others. In family, in work, in faith, in love. Life isn’t always balanced. But within the imbalance, there’s an invitation—a calling—to learn how to ride the wave.

Waves crash. They rise and fall. They come fast, or they move slow. Sometimes, they catch you off guard. Other times, you see them coming and brace. But one thing is certain: making decisions while you’re inside the wave is never where clarity lives.

Clarity comes after—in the stillness, in the center, in the in-between.

The high and the low are not your measuring sticks. They are motion. They are movement. They are meant to be surfed, not fought. And certainly not judged.

So, what can you do when you’re in the thick of it?

You take care of you in the most radical ways possible.

You ground.

You journal.

You walk.

You cry.

You move your body.

You call a friend.

You take five minutes of silence in the middle of chaos and breathe like it’s your only job.

You whisper to yourself, “Just surf this one… don’t try to fix the ocean.”

The wave doesn’t disappear because you ignore it. It disappears when it passes—on its own time. Your job isn’t to stop it. Your job is to ride it with as much grace as you can, and when you fall under, trust that the spin may just toss you right onto your feet again.

You don’t need to always be efficient, or perfect, or endlessly strong.

You just need to be human.

And brave.

And willing to wait for clarity, even when the wait feels unbearable.

Let the wave carry you to it.

Surf

Sometimes,

the strongest thing you can do

is not hold it all together—

but let it rise.

Let the ache have space,

let the silence breathe,

let the wave wash through

without the need to speak.

You are not failing

because you’re tired.

You are not weak

because your soul is soft.

Hold space for your own becoming

as you hold others in their storm.

Let the tide return you

to your own shoreline.

You are not lost—

you’re surfing.

–Kerri Elizabeth–

What If It Wasn’t Bad? Rethinking Pain as a Pathway to Presence

Posted on by Kerri Elizabeth

We’ve been taught to run.

Taught that pain is something to fix.

That discomfort means something’s gone wrong.

That a heavy feeling in the chest or a longing in the heart must be pushed away, stuffed down, or labeled as “bad.”

But what if that’s never what it was?

What if that ache is awareness?

A sacred nudge toward what wants to grow?

What if the longing is not lack, but a compass pointing toward change?

What if pain isn’t a punishment, but a messenger—

not to escape, but to engage?

We often assume pain is the opposite of progress.

But the truth?

The most profound art,

the most enduring love,

the richest wisdom,

and the most awe-inspiring growth

has always begun in the soil of the not-so-glorious.

It is not from our perfectly curated moments that truth emerges.

It is from the cracks, the tremors, the missteps, and the quiet spaces where the world doesn’t quite make sense.

That’s where clarity lives.

That’s where strength is forged.

Not in the absence of hurt,

but in walking through it with a willingness to see what it’s really offering.

Pain and growth are dance partners.

They collide regularly—and on purpose.

We waste so much energy trying to disappear the discomfort,

instead of listening to it.

Instead of witnessing its tears.

Instead of offering it presence.

We try to escape it.

Numb it.

Shame it away.

But what if you can’t escape because you’re not supposed to?

What if it’s not a mountain, just a hill—and turning back now means you’ll never know what the view looks like from the other side?

When we panic, when we waiver, when we doubt our capacity to feel,

we shrink back into survival.

Into the belief that we won’t make it if we truly let ourselves feel what’s here.

But observe.

Just observe.

That’s where transformation begins.

That’s where the words are born,

the lessons etched into time,

the wisdom passed through generations.

Let’s not be so quick to fix what hurts.

Let’s not retreat so quickly that we miss the beauty within the breaking.

Because in skipping over our destination points—just because we were told they were wrong—we miss the waypoints of our becoming.

~Kerri Elizabeth~

Instead, ask:

Does this pain grow me or hold me in place?

Is this discomfort guiding me closer to myself or pulling me away from what’s true?

When you stop escaping and start observing,

you may find that what you feared was destroying you

is actually delivering you

into more of who you are.

“Listening to Your Inner Knowing: Healing Through Stillness and Truth”

Posted on by Kerri Elizabeth

More than one growing together with its own definition, not to be the other, but instead to highlight both dark and light to show up in the middle as the sunrise and sunset, that is where beauty shines.

We trust so many things without ever touching them.
Without holding them up to the light,
without asking how they feel in our own body,
our own heart,
our own knowing.

We trust because it’s easier, faster —
because we’re tired.
We’ve been taught to trust what’s already packaged and repeated.
To scroll, absorb, accept.

But not everything you’re given is meant to be yours.
And not every truth belongs on your skin.

Years ago, a man watched water in a moonlit stream.
Not through a microscope,
but through the lens of stillness,
and the wild reverence of someone who listened to nature.

Viktor Schauberger.
A name many will never hear.

He followed the movement of water like it was alive —
and it is.

“They call me deranged… But if I am right and science is wrong… may God help mankind.”

He wasn’t just speaking of water.
He was warning us.
That intuition, when silenced, becomes prophecy unheeded.
That nature, when ignored, will find other ways to speak.

We’ve forgotten the language of touch, of sense,
of sitting still long enough to let our own nervous system
guide us back to center.

We fear the plants we were told not to touch.
Even now, after they’ve shown their healing.
We wait for permission to use what was already gifted
by the earth, by God, by the breath that first woke us.

We trust what’s loud,
and overlook what’s ancient.

And it’s no wonder.

We are not living in stillness.
We are surviving in stimulation.

There’s a flood of voices,
each one offering the cure, the fix, the next best way.
One day you’re saved.
The next day you’re wrong.
Everything changes by the algorithm’s pulse.

How do we live inside that noise
and still hear what’s true?

The answer doesn’t come from more knowing.
It comes from returning.
To yourself.

Not the version that’s always learning, always pleasing, always pushing —
but the version that still sits under trees and breathes in silence.
That part of you who remembers.
Who already knows.

You can’t buy that knowing.
You can’t find it in someone else’s steps.
It only lives where you do.

Sit still, even if it’s uncomfortable.
Turn off the sounds.
Step into the trees.
Let nature speak without interruption.

You may feel fear at first —
the fear of your own thoughts,
your own emptiness.

But that emptiness isn’t hollow.
It’s sacred.
It’s where the voice of your Creator still hums.
Not loudly. Not demandingly.
Just… waiting.

We all carry spaces we haven’t touched yet.
Places inside we’ve filled with someone else’s story.
Beliefs that don’t fit.
Triggers that haven’t been soothed.
Emotions we never learned how to sit with.

But if we want to heal —
if we want to truly know —
we have to stop outsourcing ourselves.

You can’t be loved in your fullness
if you don’t first live there.

 On Love, Wholeness, and Belonging

We barely know how to be in relationship anymore —
not because we don’t want love,
but because love has been layered with fear.

We’re taught that to keep someone close, we must please them.
That love means sacrifice of self,
and that rejection is the cost of being honest.

We start to doubt ourselves.
To assume others must think what we think.
To believe that two becoming one
means we lose something essential in order to belong.

But true belonging doesn’t come from ownership.
It isn’t found in control or in bending to stay wanted.

One and one do not become one.
One and one remain two whole beings —
choosing to walk together,
flowing like river and earth,
like tree and fruit,
each shaped by the other
but never demanded to be less than what it is.

Yes, we intertwine.
Yes, we influence.
But the gift of love is growth,
not reduction.

Two become more when they remain whole.

 Where It All Flows Together

We are made of contrast.
We are not just joy or just pain.
We are the weaving of both —
the ache and the awe living side by side.

Love isn’t just soft.
Sometimes it’s sharp.
It shows us where we’ve gone missing inside ourselves
and invites us to return.

Pain isn’t punishment.
It’s often the invitation.
A crack that lets the new voice echo through —
the one we’d silenced for far too long.

There is light.
And there is shadow.
Both belong.
Both speak truth.

Grief isn’t the opposite of healing.
It is healing,
when we let it move through us
instead of freeze within us.

And joy — real joy —
isn’t shallow.
It’s made deeper by all the places we’ve been
where joy was far from reach.
It’s not the skipping over.
It’s the rising after sinking.

We rush so quickly —
through minutes, through meaning —
as if depth will wait for us.
But truth lives in the slow.
In the pause.
In the breath that asks,
“Do you feel this?”

To be whole,
we must let it all flow together.
Not filtered.
Not compartmentalized.
But lived.

Awareness is the alchemy.
It’s not that we must choose light or dark,
joy or sorrow, love or sadness
It’s that we become the space that allows them to coexist
without shame.
That is where truth resonates —
in the fullness of the human experience
embraced without fear.

 Can you hear that? Dont trust me, instead listen for yourself.

The voice that created you —
is still there.
Still speaking.
Not through screens,
but through wind.
Through intuition.
Through breath.

Can you hear it?

-Kerri-Elizabeth-

A Tapestry of Truth: Becoming Who You Really Are

Posted on by Kerri Elizabeth

There is a version of you the world thinks it knows.
There is also a version of you that lives in the quiet — in the space between heartbeats, in the soft whisper of intuition, in the gaze that lingers a moment longer when you see yourself clearly.

The hardest work you will ever do is unravel the parts of yourself that were pieced together by survival… and not by truth.
To notice the difference between what you agreed to in fear and what you would choose in love.

Because we don’t arrive at authenticity by accident.
We earn it — choice by choice, no by no, letting go by letting go.

And sometimes, you will disappoint others when you begin to honor yourself.
You will stand in rooms where your truth echoes uncomfortably against the walls of another’s expectation.
You will feel the weight of misunderstanding, the sting of judgment, the silence of those who no longer recognize you.

But if the choice is between being seen for who you are not,
or misunderstood while standing in the light of who you are…
Choose the light. Every time.

Because what you allow teaches others how to treat you.
And if you allow falsehoods to define you,
don’t be surprised when they do.

When you people-please your way into connection,
it often comes at the cost of feeling truly seen.
And that ache—the ache of self-betrayal—
is more enduring than anyone else’s disapproval.

So let it be said:
To live with integrity is not to be perfect.
It is to be honest with where you are today,
even knowing tomorrow may evolve you.
It is to say: “This is where I stand now. You are welcome to grow with me, or not.”

There is no shame in change.
There is no failure in outgrowing the places where your voice once trembled.
There is only life — pulsing, stretching, remaking itself through you.

And when your head hits the pillow at night,
may you feel the quiet reward of self-alignment —
that even if the world misunderstood you,
you did not misunderstand yourself.

🌿 The Weaving

I’ve pieced myself together with strands both light and worn,
some tied in silence, some frayed and torn.
I carried the weight of being the calm,
the one who holds peace, the steady palm.

But I haven’t always waited or stood still.
There were times I rushed in, led by will.
When reaction came before reflection,
and pain spoke louder than connection.
Learning to sit with what stirs inside,
to let the emotion rise, then slide —
that’s been the work, the slow repair,
to stay, to breathe, to truly care.

One day I looked and quietly asked,
“Is this really me, or just a mask?”
I paused at the edges where I’d come undone,
and slowly began to face what I’d outrun.

Not everyone cheers when you stand in your skin —
some only loved the shape you’d been.
But pretending is heavy, and silence loud,
and I’d rather be honest than make others proud.

So I gather what’s real, thread by thread,
not perfect, not polished, but true instead.
A life made of moments I won’t need to hide —
not always easy, but lived from inside.

-Kerri-Elizabeth-

✨ Journaling Prompt

Where in your life are you still weaving with threads that no longer feel true? What would it look like to begin again with honesty?

The Stories We Carry

Posted on by Kerri Elizabeth

We all have stories—
some passed down,
some passed around,
some born from glances never explained.

I’ve learned that the same story can be told a hundred different ways depending on who holds the pen. One person remembers the way the light hit the kitchen table. Another remembers the silence after a slammed door. Some recall laughter. Some can’t forget the ache. And none of it makes any of it less real.

What’s hardest is when the stories begin to live lives of their own—shaped by whispers, fueled by wounds, rewritten by those who need a version that comforts their pain.

Sometimes love is rewritten into betrayal,
connection into threat,
guidance into control.
And suddenly, you find yourself a villain in a story you never wrote.

There is a kind of grief—no, not grief, but a reckoning—
when a child is no longer allowed to speak to you.
Not because of something you did,
but because someone else needed them to stop listening.

Needed them to carry their pain,
to make sense of their own wounds by silencing yours.
And so, a legacy is broken, not by truth,
but by the stories others told loud enough, long enough,
that it began to sound like history.

And yet…

There are other children,
other souls
who are spared the chaos,
who find family in love,
who are given the gift of choosing their path—not out of fear or pressure,
but through the soft unfolding of experience.
They come to know love not as a tool or a transaction,
but as a presence.

That is the hope.
That is the beauty in this brokenness.

Because we cannot fix the feelings others are determined to carry.
We cannot rewrite their chapters.
But we can stop reading the story aloud to ourselves.

We can sit with it—not to suffer it, but to let it soften.
To breathe it in only long enough to find the lesson,
and then breathe it out
as something lighter.

This is how we stop the inheritance of pain.
This is how we leave space for joy,
even if some never return.

We do not need to resent them.
We do not need to chase them.
We simply need to be here—fully here—
with all the love that remains.

The past is not ours to fix.
But the present…
the present is ours to live.

Let the story pass.
Let the breath deepen.
Let the legacy of love be louder than the lie.

-Kerri-Elizabeth-

Stay True

Posted on by Kerri Elizabeth

Stay soft
even when the world feels hard.
Stay true
even when no one sees you.

Let them forget—
you remember.
Let them gather—
you root.

You were never made to vanish.
You were made to rise
from the quiet.
To love from the ache.
To see clearly
without needing to be seen.

Let presence be your protest.
Let peace be your answer.
And let love, real love,
begin with how you hold yourself
when no one else does.

-Kerri-Elizabeth-

A Gentle Journey Into Wellness: Not Just for Ourselves, But for Those We Love

Posted on by Kerri Elizabeth

We all see life a little differently, we experience life a little differently, but to share life in the differences, that is where real roots start.

Some believe youth is eternal, at least in spirit. We laugh like we’re still teenagers, move like we’ll never grow old, and expect tomorrow to look a lot like today. But age isn’t a thief—it’s a revealer. It shows us not just how our bodies change, but how our hearts grow, soften, and begin to wonder what kind of legacy we’re leaving behind.

For me, wellness has never been just about me. It’s been the quiet gift I’ve wanted to give my children—a kind of love that doesn’t take up space or ask for credit, but exists so they never have to feel burdened by my pain or limitations. I didn’t want their lives to revolve around caring for someone who didn’t care enough to tend to herself.

I’ve watched the ripple effect of carelessness, and I felt its frustration long before I could name it. Even as a child, I knew: how we take care of ourselves touches every person who loves us.

When I married, that devotion expanded. My husband deserves my best—not because I owe it, but because I want the time we have to be rich with presence and not shortened by preventable illness. I’ve been ridiculed and labeled for how deeply I care about health. Too radical, too extreme, or paradoxically, not enough. I’ve been laughed at, questioned endlessly, and just as often—I’ve been asked for every detail. What do you eat? What do you make? Can I do what you do? I’m the one they call when someone is sick, and my heart always wants to give the remedy.

But there is no remedy that works without a shift. There is no single tea or tincture that can override a life misaligned with wellness. Healing is a choice—a commitment to a path, not a pit stop. So I no longer pour my energy into quick fixes, because they’re not the true medicine. The real work begins when someone is ready to walk a different way—not just for a moment, but for a season, or even a lifetime.

I’ve come to see that what truly helps is not handing someone my answers, but gently guiding them toward their own. Otherwise, it becomes a cycle of reaching outward instead of inward. And I’ve learned that real healing happens when we offer people a way back to themselves, not just a list of what helped us.

I’ve spent my life learning, experimenting, creating, and healing myself through deep commitment—not bandages or shortcuts. I’ve walked beside my own child through leukemia—a child who was vibrant, healthy, never even had a cavity. Raised in a home as toxin-free as I knew to create. Why did he get sick? Why do some people suffer despite all their efforts? We may never know. The world is full of invisible battles—some we inherit, some we meet unexpectedly. And in between, we must still advocate for ourselves with heart and integrity.

I’ve seen our elders age in two different ways. Some stretch their arms in Pilates and laughter. Others sit in pain, immobilized by years of neglect—not always by choice, but often by habit. It isn’t always about what we ate or did. Even the cleanest foods from fifty years ago are now filled with artificial ingredients. The purity of the past is rare today. And longevity, now, feels like a quest to navigate invisible pollutants—emotional, physical, and environmental.

There is no single answer. No universal path. There is only your path—your way of thriving, your way of healing. And it’s meant to evolve.

We live in a time of information overload. AI, social media, quick tips, endless cures. Every day, someone new says, “This is it! This is the way!” But real wellness doesn’t come from a single scroll or a trending protocol. It comes from slowing down enough to know what your body, your heart, your soul is asking for.

Sometimes, it’s frustrating to watch adventures slow down because people you love can’t—or won’t—walk the same path. It’s not my decision. But still, it affects me. Because when you love people deeply, their limitations do touch your own.

And yet—I still have the ability and the right to grow. To move. To adventure. To thrive. The word no becomes as sacred as the right foods. Boundaries begin to feel like nutrients too.

How much of yourself do you give away, and how much do you honor? That, too, is as personal as your wellness practice. This is a time of deep growth. A time to ask:

How will I honor myself… while still honoring those I love who choose differently?

How can I walk in balance—not from judgment, but with wisdom born from resistance, grace, and truth?

How can I offer presence—not to fix, but to remind someone of their own power to choose again?

The Gift of Living Well

The path is walked

not out of fear,

but out of love—

for the moments yet to come,

and the ones that shaped the way.

Choices echo through time.

Laughter lingers longer

in bodies that are honored.

Presence deepens

when the vessel is well.

This is not about perfection,

but awareness—

of what lifts,

what lingers,

what truly lasts.

Even when others pause,

resist,

or travel a different trail,

respect can hold space

for every pace,

every rhythm.

Wellness is not a race

or a rigid rule—

it is the quiet joy

of rising each day

and choosing again.

To nourish.

To breathe.

To notice the beauty

in simple rituals—

morning light,

genuine connection,

the soft art of enough.

There is wisdom in planting trees

whose shade we may never sit beneath.

In sharing moments that outlast us—

stories, smiles, small gestures—

passed down like heirlooms,

etched into generations.

Slowing down is not delay,

but devotion—

a way of making room

for what speed may trample.

For in rushing past

what asks to be felt,

the lesson may loop back

to be lived again.

The life that is tended

grows differently

than the one that is chased.

And the more care takes root,

the more joy can rise—

not to fix the world,

but to greet it

with open hands

and a whole heart.

Walking Through the Perception of Pain

Posted on by Kerri Elizabeth

BE AWARE OF HOW YOU SEE YOURSELF, THATS THE SAME VIEW YOU SEE THE WORLD THROUGH.

There comes a time when running no longer works—
when the ache doesn’t lessen with distance,
when the echo of pain waits for you at the next bend.
It is not weakness to pause.
It is strength to stay, to look directly into the eyes of discomfort
and ask it: What are you here to show me?

Walking through the pain is not about conquering it—
it’s about knowing it.
Seeing its colors, hearing its rhythm,
feeling the way it shifts your breath, your stance, your gaze.
Sometimes it’s a loud throb that demands your attention,
other times it’s a subtle whisper,
a pulse in the background of your choices.

Is it really pain—or is it the story you were told about pain?
Do you respond out of memory, out of programming,
or from presence, clarity, and truth?

Pain can be an ally in transformation
when we stop anticipating its arrival with fear
and start witnessing it as a bridge—
an invitation to expand.

Ask yourself:
– Why am I walking away?
– Am I avoiding hurt, or avoiding growth?
– Can I stay here, still and strong,
not to suffer but to see?

Life will test you.
That’s a promise.
But how you define those tests is up to you.
Are they punishments—or portals?

You can do hard things.
With grace.
With steady breath.
With the knowing that pain
is not your identity
but a teacher passing through.

When you choose to walk through it,
you walk into a new version of yourself.
One who didn’t skip the chapter,
but read it aloud
and found truth in its lines.

Let others react how they do—
some will shut down, some will turn away,
some will lash out.
That doesn’t define your path.
Let your response be rooted in wisdom,
not reflex.
Let your heart rate be a compass,
not a warning siren.
And let your stillness reveal
the power you’ve always had.

Poem: The Walk

I walked not because I had nowhere to go,
but because I had somewhere to arrive within.
The road cracked beneath my bare feet—
not to injure me,
but to open what I buried long ago.

Pain was not the enemy.
It was the door.
And I—
I became the key.

I stopped naming it sorrow
and started calling it strength.
I stopped listening to fear
and started listening to breath.

Every tremble became a prayer.
Every pause, a song of endurance.
I walked, not to escape,
but to enter.

Not to fight,
but to finally feel.

-Kerri-Elizabeth-

The Space Between Our Timing

Posted on by Kerri Elizabeth

Some things don’t arrive when we call for them.
Answers. Apologies. Understanding.
Sometimes, even love itself can feel like it’s running on a different clock.

And when you’re the one waiting, it can ache.
When you’re the one needing, it can stir a deeper awareness—
a noticing of how timing shapes everything.
And when you’re the one who can’t respond yet,
it can bring a quiet tension you don’t yet know how to name.

We don’t all meet life at the same tempo.
Some of us move fast—urgent to solve, to connect, to resolve.
Others need time, silence, space to feel their way forward.

But what happens in the pause between one person’s need and the other’s delay?

A whisper sneaks in:
“They don’t care.”
“They’re avoiding me.”
“This always happens.”
Something quiet begins to sharpen beneath the surface—
not rage, not cruelty—just the subtle weight of unmet timing.
An edge forms. And it cuts without anyone meaning to.

This obstacle can teach.
And it can take away.
It can open us to compassion
or close us in resentment.

The question becomes:
How do we meet each other with honor
when we’re out of rhythm?
How do we stay kind when we’re tired of holding the silence?
How do we not make their timing mean something about our worth?

Not every pause is punishment.
Not every delay is disregard.
But the stories we’ve lived may whisper otherwise.

It’s not just a language barrier—it’s a life barrier.
Different nervous systems.
Different stories.
Different shapes of presence and processing.

But if we can pause—not to press, not to fix,
but to see the other in their timing—
maybe we create a space where no one is wrong.

Maybe we say:
“I’m feeling the weight of waiting. I just need you to know.”
Or:
“I don’t have the words yet, but your heart matters to me.”

And just like that, we step out of the battle,
and into the bridge.

A Rhythm We Haven’t Learned Yet

Sometimes,
I wait for you
like the moon waits for the tide—
knowing it will come,
but not knowing when.

Sometimes,
you need space
like a mountain needs mist—
not to disappear,
but to breathe.

We move like dancers
to different songs,
feet aching
when we try to lead each other
through rhythms we haven’t learned yet.

But what if this is the music?

What if the space between us
isn’t a problem to solve,
but a sacred silence
where trust
and truth
begin to rise?

So I’ll stay present—
not in pause,
but in practice.
Not waiting to live,
but living in love
while the dance finds its shape.

Whether we meet in step
or drift apart like waves—
I am still whole
and still here.
Breathing. Becoming.
With or without the answer.

-Kerri-Elizabeth-

What have you learned about your own rhythm—and how do you honor it while loving someone whose pace is different from yours?

The Antidote Is Within

Posted on by Kerri Elizabeth

There’s a kind of expansion that doesn’t look like more doing, more chasing, or more becoming.

It looks like shedding.

Softening.

Listening to what’s already been whispering inside for years.

People ask all the time—

What do you take?

What do you eat?

What do you think about this herb or that cleanse?

But the deeper truth is this:

The best health advice I can ever offer

Is to turn down the noise

And ask yourself…

How do you feel?

Are you rested or are you rushing on borrowed energy?

Do you move your body because it brings you life,

Or because you’re trying to fix what was never broken?

Do you fall into sleep like a prayer

or collapse into it like a last resort?

How much of your day is spent

in silence,

in breath,

in the untangling of thought from truth?

Do you scrub your skin like punishment

or like ceremony—

exfoliating the layers not just of yesterday’s dust,

but of the weight you’ve carried too long?

We hold the antidote inside.

Not in a bottle,

Not in someone else’s method or miracle,

But in our ability to return

to presence,

to rhythm,

to the quiet knowing we’ve always had.

There’s a lot out there telling us how to feel better,

how to do more,

how to chase a version of beauty that was never our own.

But what if we’re not meant to do more?

What if we’re meant to realign where we give our effort—

To stop over-performing in some areas

and under-nourishing others?

What if your wholeness doesn’t need to be earned,

only remembered?

We are not trends.

We are not opinions.

We are not before-and-after stories.

We are stories still being told,

and no one else gets to hold the pen.

Expansion is personal.

It begins with small choices that honor what’s real:

a breath,

a stretch,

a kind word to the mirror,

a walk without your phone,

a plate of vibrant food grown in soil, not manufactured in labs.

Play your instrument.

Take the trip.

Paint what you see in your dreams.

But do it because something inside you calls you forward—

not because an algorithm says you should.

You don’t need to change who you are.

You just need to come back to yourself.

And from there,

everything expands.

-Kerri-Elizabeth-