“Winter doesn’t ask you to be strong, only honest.”
The first days of December nudge us inward. Not to hide… but to see. To notice what’s tender, what’s tired, what’s ready for change. You don’t have to reinvent your life today, just listen. Winter is the season where the soul whispers truths we rushed past all year.
Let the quiet teach you. Let the slower pace feel sacred instead of sad. You’re allowed to rest into yourself. You’re allowed to let the light return slowly.
When the season cools, the spirit warms, truth rises on its own time.
Gentle practice: Step outside for one minute. (Barefoot if you can) Notice the air on your skin. Let it reset your nervous system.
-Kerri-Elizabeth- Tomorrow, we’ll explore how sadness can become strength, not heaviness.
Sometimes love is the quiet allowing of someone else’s becoming.”
There is strength in giving space. When we stop needing others to understand us right away, something softens, both in them and in us. The pause becomes sacred ground, a place where truth can breathe without being forced.
Small practice:Today, resist the urge to correct or explain. Listen instead. Notice how stillness opens room for peace to enter.
-Kerri-Elizabeth- Tomorrow, we’ll listen in a different way, to the body that speaks when the mind is quiet.
“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.
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?
SONSHINE FOR YOU 