There is a shiver where silence settles, not from the cold, but from the way truth presses against the walls.
Shadows lengthen, not because the light has shifted, but because deception stretches farther than we thought.
A pause is never just a pause. It is a weight. It is the sound of something unsaid carving a hollow behind the ribs.
Sometimes I wonder if silence is a shield or if it is a weapon, cutting deeper with every moment it holds back.
And yet, in the same stillness, a spark waits. A reminder that even in the grip of hidden lies, the body knows, the spirit remembers, and nothing stays buried forever.
-Kerri-Elizabeth- When silence finally breaks, will it whisper, or will it roar?
The water looked still, but stillness has a way of deceiving. Beneath the surface, a pulse stirred, faint, almost invisible, but alive enough to send ripples across the silence. It wasn’t the kind of ripple you could see in the reflection of the lake; it was the kind you feel in your skin, in the hairs at the back of your neck, in the quickening of your breath when you realize something is there.
Whispers live in places like this. They hide between the cracks of boards on a dock, in the echoes that hang in the rafters of a room, in the way shadows lean farther than they should when the moon stretches them thin. The whispers don’t announce themselves. They don’t ask permission. They linger, and sometimes they take root.
It’s strange how healing can only begin when you stop pretending the whispers aren’t there. For years, you learn to quiet them, to layer silence over silence until it becomes a wall. But silence never silences the truth; it holds it, and held truth always finds a way out.
Tonight, the hold was loud. The whispers pressed harder against the stillness, and there was no denying them. The body knows long before the mind admits it: something is stirring, and it is not done with you.
It might not even be about destruction. Sometimes the truth presses through because it’s desperate to be freed, not because it wants to tear you down, but because it is seeking freedom.
Still, the not knowing can bring its own emotional adventure.
-Kerri-Elizabeth-
What happens when silence can no longer hold what’s buried? When the surface begins to crack, will truth seep gently through, or erupt in a way no one expected?
When you can’t see it, feel it, your heart already knows what fear and anxiety try to blur.
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.
~Kerri-Elizabeth~
As this week folds into stillness, the edge of tomorrow stirs with quiet anticipation. What has been hidden asks to be trusted, what has been blurred begins to clear. Week three rises like a shadowed path ahead, inviting the heart to lead where the eyes cannot yet follow.
“Love never fails; it simply reshapes itself and makes room to breathe. Rejection may look the same, but its essence is different.”
Rejection is not always loud.
Sometimes it comes as absence
a chair left empty,
a phone that does not ring,
a silence that stretches longer than the horizon.
At first, it feels like a mistake.
Surely the echo will fade,
surely the door will open again.
But silence can harden,
it can become a wall,
and soon you realize you are standing
on the outside looking in.
Rejection leaves a mark,
but it also leaves clarity.
It teaches you where love was conditional,
where belonging was borrowed,
where you tried to plant gardens
in soil that was never fertile.
And yet,
love itself is not gone.
It does not die with distance.
It reshapes,
becoming the wind that carries your prayers,
the river that flows unseen beneath the earth,
the light that reaches across time and space
to whisper:
“I am still here, even if we are apart.”
In this echo,
you learn that love does not need to be received
to remain true.
It can be given freely,
released like seeds into the wind,
trusting they will root where they must.
The ground is shifting again… and the house leans closer to the edge.
~Kerri-Elizabeth~
The echo does not fade. It sharpens, carrying the weight of what is slipping away. Tomorrow, the house leans closer to the edge, and the ground begins to give.
“At the edge of shadows, light waits to be seen, reminding us that endings are only thresholds to another beginning.”
Change doesn’t always come crashing.
Sometimes it lingers at the edges,
the way dusk slowly unravels daylight,
barely noticed until the sky is no longer blue.
There is a silence that weighs heavier than words.
It doesn’t scream, doesn’t accuse
it simply waits,
like a shadow just out of reach,
asking you to notice what has already shifted.
You walk through the day as if nothing has changed,
yet the air tastes different,
like rain just before it falls.
The trees seem to lean in,
the wind carries whispers you can’t quite hold.
Trust is not stolen in a single act,
it erodes,
grain by grain,
like cliffs giving way to the sea.
And by the time you notice the hollow beneath your feet,
the land is already gone.
You learn to sit with the silence,
to watch without rushing,
to let stillness teach you what words never will.
Because even in the shadows,
love can take new form
not the love that clings,
but the kind that releases into the wind,
trusting it will reach where it needs to go.
And somewhere in that silence, a storm is still gathering…
~Kerri-Elizabeth~
And still, the silence grows heavier, pressing against the walls of certainty. What happens when it finally breaks? Tomorrow, the storm begins to scatter its disguise.
SONSHINE FOR YOU 