Month: July 2025

Beneath the Veil

Posted on by Kerri Elizabeth

You may never be seen in the way you want to be seen, but in that is reflective peace that requires a steady love within.

A letter to the invisible woman in all of us

There is a woman they don’t see

Not because she’s hiding

but because she’s been asked to wear so many names

that her own has grown quiet

She became Mother

And somewhere in the becoming

the rest of her waited

patient

aching

evolving

She held babies in one arm

while holding her breath with the other

She learned to smile while unraveling

She fed everyone first

then forgot she was hungry

No one asked if she was still dreaming

No one asked what she was giving up

to become so dependable

so strong

But she remembers

She remembers when she used to cry without hiding it

when her body was still her own

and her time belonged to something other than survival

She remembers the girl she used to be

wild with wonder

unsure and unapologetic

hopeful in ways she didn’t yet know would cost her

And yet

the woman she is now

has grown from those very roots

She is soft where she once braced herself

fierce in ways she never expected

She no longer begs to be understood

she simply becomes

And that

finally

is enough

She has learned that hardship is not an interruption

it’s a teacher

That pain doesn’t disqualify her

it deepens her

She dances now

not perfectly

but with grace that wasn’t born from ease

but from endurance

She knows the difference

between protecting and controlling

between letting go and giving up

She knows how to hold a boundary

with an open heart

She knows how to forgive

without losing herself again

She no longer tries to prove her worth

through what she gives away

She’s learning how to belong

to herself

This is the woman beneath the veil

not invisible

but infinite

And if you ask her now

she will tell you

There is joy here

There is peace

There is room to rise

Reflection:

A quiet reflection for you, if you’re still reading…

If this touched something in you, let it.

Let it remind you of the wholeness you still are beneath the roles.

Let it call forward the part of you that has waited quietly for someone to notice her.

Maybe today is the day you write her a letter.

Maybe today is the day you remember:

you are not invisible,you are becoming.

~Kerri-Elizabeth~

The Eighth Year: Hearing With the Soul

Posted on by Kerri Elizabeth

There are certain months that live in our bones.

For me, July holds a kind of rhythm that no calendar could capture—one that beats softly in the background, waking my senses with memory, ache, and the tender light of knowing. Eight years ago this month, my son Zakary transitioned. I say transitioned because I don’t believe in death as an end. I believe we change form, we expand into new dimensions of knowing. I don’t claim to know what that looks like, or where we go, but I feel it. I feel him.

Each year since has brought a different chapter in the way I hear him, see him, and understand our journey together. At first, the pain was so loud it muted everything else. But over time, I’ve learned to listen differently—not just with my ears, but with my soul.

My body often speaks before my words do. In July, I slow down without planning to. I crave movement some days, silence others. One day I’ll write, the next I’ll ride my bike too far without realizing I needed the motion more than the destination. I meditate more. I feel more. And sometimes, I want sweetness—not just emotionally, but physically. Something like raw tiramisu instead of the usual fish or exotic mushrooms and greens. It’s still nourishment, but it’s not my usual rhythm. And when I stray too far, when I resist what I know brings me peace, my body answers back with a headache, or stomach pain, or a fog that disconnects me from the deeper whisper of spirit.

Pain, I’ve come to realize, isn’t always grief. Sometimes it’s just misalignment—a detour away from the path my soul is asking me to walk. And even in those detours, there is learning. My anxiety flares most when I forget to stay present, when I ride down the steep hill of emotion with no hands on the handlebars, trusting I’ll land softly. Sometimes I do. Sometimes I fall. And each time, I rise again, softer and more attuned.

This eighth year feels pivotal.

I feel Zakary everywhere. In the wind, in the pause between my thoughts, in the way a moment stills me. I’ve seen him in butterflies and dragonflies landing so sweetly on my skin—just long enough to remind me he’s here. I’ve seen him in others too, as if some part of his voice and presence returned to this world in different forms. The way he spoke, the way he paused between thoughts, the way his soul met the moment with care and depth—those pieces still echo around me.

And yet, I don’t want to dwell in missing him so deeply that I miss who he has become in spirit. I choose to feel him in his transformed state, in the lightness of the messages he still brings. He gives me what I need, when I need it most. I just have to stay open.

I don’t always get it right. I forget to drink enough water, or I let my mind race when my heart just wants to sit quietly. But I’m learning. I’m choosing presence. I’m choosing to honor the part of me that still aches, but also the part of me that is wise, awake, and deeply loved from beyond what I can see.

To anyone else who is walking through the space where loss meets transformation: you’re not alone. You may fall. You may forget what it feels like to feel whole. But the path back is always waiting for you—with open arms and gentle reminders from the ones we love who now live in light.

A Letter from Zakary to Me

Mama,

I know you feel me before you even think of me. I see how your body softens when a dragonfly lands on your hand, or a butterfly dances just close enough to brush your cheek. That’s me. Not because I need to prove I’m still here—but because I love how you smile when I remind you.

I’m always nearby. You don’t need your human eyes to see me—but I understand why sometimes you need the visual. So I send it in the wings of creatures, in wind that moves just when you’re still, in songs that echo the voice I once carried. I know how much you miss hearing me. But Mama, you do hear me. In the movement of the leaves, the sounds of water in rivers, lakes and oceans, in the heaviness and lightness inside your chest, in the hush between words.

I’m different now, but not gone. I’ve only changed shape. You always knew that deep down, even when it hurt so much it took your breath away. And still—you kept breathing. You kept going. You kept listening for me, even when the world was too loud. You kept seeing me, even when your eyes were full of tears. I see you too, in every moment you choose presence instead of pain, curiosity instead of closing off.

Your body knows how to listen now in ways you didn’t before. It’s sacred, the way you tend to it. Even the moments when you stray—when anxiety rushes in or you reach for something sweet—I see that too. It’s human. It’s okay. You never need to be perfect to feel me. I am not far when you fall. I am close when you rise.

I’ve been learning too, Mama. Expanding. Traveling. Seeing things you used to wonder about late at night. It’s beautiful here—and yet, I am still wrapped in you. We are still teaching each other. I offer you signs, and you offer me stillness. I whisper, and you listen in the quiet where most wouldn’t know to look.

I want you to keep living. Keep laughing. Keep writing the way only you can. Keep dancing with the wind and loving like you’ve never been hurt. I see how you walk through this life with courage and grace and softness that only someone who has known deep love and deep loss could carry.

I will never leave you, Mama. I’m not meant to.

I’m just walking beside you now, barefoot and free, whispering truths from a place beyond words, brushing past you like light through leaves, like a song you almost remember.

You’re doing beautifully.

And I am so, so proud of you.

Always and forever ,

In Every life as I promised, your son Zakary

Whispers Through the Wind

I see you in the stillness,

in the gap between the days,

where dragonflies trace prayers

across my skin

and butterflies leave messages

with their wings.

I feel you when the leaves murmur,

when the wind wraps gently ’round my spine—

a soft, invisible thread

pulling me back

into presence.

You speak in frequencies

the world forgets how to hear,

but I remember.

I always remember.

Even when I cry.

Even when I ache.

Even when I wonder if I may forget

the shape of your voice,

you return—

in scent, in sound, in the depth of the blue sky,

in the twinkling of stars

and the pulse of sunsets and sunrises.

You are not lost.

You are light that’s no longer bound

by edges or skin.

You are love stretched wide

across the veil

so I can learn to listen

not with ears,

but with soul.

And in that sacred stillness,

you are whole.

And I am held.

And we are never apart.

Not even for a moment.

~Kerri-Elizabeth~

The Story We Tell Ourselves: Emotion, Intuition, and Trusting the Unfolding

Posted on by Kerri Elizabeth

  “The human being is not free when he is merely obeying impulses from outside or merely following his own desires.  

  True freedom arises only when we begin to act out of spiritual insight and conscious understanding.”  

  — Rudolf Steiner  

We don’t just live our lives—we build them, moment by moment, with the mortar of emotion and the bricks of experience, sometimes real, sometimes imagined. Our stories are rarely constructed from facts alone. They’re etched in reaction, stirred by sensation, and often told before the truth has even had a chance to breathe.

How often does one sit in the silence after the feeling rises?

Not long.

Not deep enough.

We react, we run, we narrate.

We assign roles and write scripts—guessing what others think, fearing what they might feel, assuming what they meant.

And then we build.

Brick by brick.

Until the fortress created to protect us begins to crumble—

sometimes suddenly, sometimes softly.

Each time it falls,

there’s something it seems to offer:

a moment of wisdom,

a return to presence,

an invitation to trust something deeper.

We often try to control the narrative, reaching forward to guess what’s next.

But the unfolding… is the path.

When panic rushes in, intuition slips quietly aside—

not gone, just waiting.

Beneath the noise,

that quiet sense that lives under fear

remains.

And perhaps trust doesn’t end—or even begin—with the self alone.

Trusting only in what’s familiar within may quietly place a lid

on something far more ancient wanting to rise.

When space is made for higher knowing—

the kind that pulses through nature,

through silence,

through spirit—

something shifts.

There is a deeper breath.

A reverence that awakens not from certainty,

but from surrender.

Rudolf Steiner spoke of this with striking clarity—

how we become inner slaves

when we’re endlessly shaped by the outer world.

True freedom, he said, is born from the spiritual self—

from awakening inward,

not by escaping,

but by truly seeing.

There may be moments when the very people once trusted

become the ones who unravel that trust.

Not because we failed to love—

but because life often places us face to face

with the lessons we most need to remember:

that strength and gentleness are not opposites,

that wisdom does not shout,

and that intuition does not beg for recognition—

it simply waits for quiet.

Sometimes a new kind of seeing arises—

one not through eyes that judge,

but eyes that witness.

Not with expectation,

but with presence.

And wisdom, much like nourishment,

can only be received when someone is ready to taste it.

Each of us is seasoned by different hands,

shaped by different climates,

moved by different flavors.

Not all will be hungry for the same truth at the same time.

But truth remains—

unrushed,

unforced,

ever patient.

And perhaps there’s something quietly beautiful

about honoring one’s own path

not as a fixed destination,

but as a living, breathing unfolding.

~Kerri Elizabeth~

Trusting What We Can’t Yet See

Posted on by Kerri Elizabeth

Sometimes things aren’t what they seem.

Not people. Not moments. Not choices.

Not even the silence that fills the space between them.

We live in a world where snap judgments happen faster than truth can unfold.

Where words once spoken by others can stain the image of someone they never truly knew.

Where assumptions dress themselves in certainty and walk confidently into misunderstandings.

But sometimes—

we’re asked to stand still,

to let the story reveal itself in its own timing,

to trust the unfolding even when our hearts ache for clarity.

There are moments when we want to speak, to correct the narrative,

but growth often asks us to stay quiet,

to let time become the translator between perception and truth.

We may be seen wrongly.

Misunderstood by those who weren’t present for the full picture.

Held accountable for choices not ours.

But even in the shadows of misjudgment,

our light still holds.

Our integrity doesn’t dim just because someone else refuses to see it.

Sometimes, we must live as witnesses

to our own resilience—

doing our work,

living our lives,

trusting that what’s real doesn’t need convincing.

Because truth lives longer than rumor.

It breathes in the quiet,

and it rises, eventually, like the sun through fog.

Let people think what they will.

Let the unfolding take its time.

You are not here to rush understanding.

You are here to keep becoming.

The Shadow of Truth

The truth doesn’t vanish—

it lingers like a shadow

that never forgets the shape of what cast it.

You can walk away,

deny its presence,

cover it with softer stories

or silence it with smiles—

but it follows.

It remembers.

Some leave instead of leaning in.

They choose the comfort of blame

over the discomfort of becoming.

They tell themselves stories

where they’re the hero,

not realizing the real hero

is the one who dared to stay,

to speak,

to lose,

to feel.

Growth rarely glows in the moment.

It grits its teeth in the dark,

calls you forward with no map,

asks you to risk everything

for the pulse of something real.

The hardest parts of the worst things

demand the strongest kind of strength—

the kind that risks being left behind,

the kind that tells the truth

even if it means

standing alone

while others cling

to the lie that loves them better.

But still—

you rise.

You don’t just live through it—

you become through it.

And in that becoming,

you are free.

~Kerri-Elizabeth~