“Every act of awareness polishes the mirror of the soul.”
Renewal doesn’t arrive in one moment, it reveals itself in many small ones, over time. Each sip of water, each pause, each breath of forgiveness becomes a doorway to light. The body clears, the heart widens, and life begins to shimmer with quiet, present and nourished gratitude.
-Kerri-Elizabeth-
Before bed, list three things that felt like light today, no matter how small. Let them be your closing prayer.
Tomorrow, a new week begins, one that will turn these practices into living art.
“What falls apart teaches the silence how to begin again.”
The shoreline no longer echoed with parties or engines. Lawns were trimmed, flowers clipped, boats pulled in one by one. The cove seemed emptier, though in its emptiness, a different kind of sound began and quieter, steadier, like the whisper of things piecing themselves back together.
There was no announcement, no grand return. Just the slow work of repair: a chair moved back under the porch, a light left on in the evening, a conversation spoken softly enough to stay contained. What was torn open by storms and shadows began to find its way into a quieter shape, though not without the reminder that everything carries its cost.
Boards reset where waves had worn,
hands rebuild what storms had torn.
Quiet hums where chaos slept,
promises whispered, silence kept.
Rebuilding comes not loud, but slow,
a softer edge to what we know.
-Kerri-Elizabeth-
Yet even in rebuilding, silence never stays empty for long, the next echo always waits just beyond reach.
“Distance is not always measured in miles, but in truth withheld.”
The sound of joy can be piercing when you stand outside of it. Laughter, music, the hum of boats, and it all carries across the water as if it belonged to me, too. But sound has a way of reminding us of what we are not part of.
It is a strange ache, to be so close and yet so far. A hundred feet. A breath of distance. And yet, it might as well have been a hundred miles. Because distance is never only about space. Sometimes it is about what is withheld, the belonging that is denied, the truth that is hidden, the words that never come.
I noticed how my body responded. My chest tightened, my breath grew shallow, as if the noise itself had weight. For a moment, I wanted to disappear into that pain. To quiet it by numbing it. That impulse startled me, not because it was powerful, but because it was new. The thought that not existing, even just for a while, might feel easier than existing with the ache.
But healing asks something different of us. It asks us to stay. To notice what rises, to feel it in the body, and to choose not to vanish. So I walked. I wrote. I lit candles and let salt water hold me. I chose presence, even when presence hurt. And in choosing presence, I found a kind of strength I did not know I had, the courage to sit with what is unbearable without trying to erase myself.
We all face these moments. Maybe not with sound across the water, but with the reminder of where we are not welcomed, of who has turned away, of what no longer includes us. The details may differ, but the ache is the same. The question is not how to erase it, but how to live through it, and in living through it, discover that we are stronger than the silence that excludes us.
In that, what was found, was a new silence that resonated peace, rather than questions or pain, a resilience that screamed, “I’m here, I’m you”.
~Kerri Elizabeth ~
What do we do when the noise around us becomes louder than the peace within us? Do we disappear into it, or do we rise above it and let it sharpen our awareness instead?
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.
Not all rebuilding begins with hammers ,some begins with the choice to stand still and listen.
There is a silence that settles after the last echoes fade, not the hush of peace, but the stillness of a place deciding what it will become.
The rebuilding does not announce itself.
It starts in small, almost invisible ways: a stone set back in place without thinking, a path cleared because your feet naturally follow it, a breath drawn without the weight you’ve been carrying for months.
No one stands in a circle to mark the moment. There are no blueprints, no fanfare, no clear signal that now is the time to begin again. The work starts inside , in the soft decision to believe in the ground beneath you, even if it’s still damp from the storm.
And perhaps the most surprising thing is this: sometimes the first piece you set in place is not for shelter at all. It’s for beauty, a reminder that what is worth living for has survived, even here, even now.
Rebuilding is not about erasing what happened. The lines are still there, the cracks still visible, the ground still bearing the shape of loss. But within those shapes, there is space for new roots to find their way down.
~Kerri-Elizabeth~
This series moves through the storm’s rise, its breaking, and the quiet work that follows. What comes next will not be the same as what was lost but it may hold a strength that only comes from having been rebuilt.
Sometimes the hardest part of the storm is realizing the calm was never the end.
The calm came like an unearned mercy ,the kind that makes you believe the worst is behind you. The air felt lighter, almost sweet. For a moment, you let yourself imagine the storm had passed, that the tearing down was finished.
But calm can be a trickster.
It can be the still breath before the second wall arrives ,heavier, sharper, and carrying what the first did not take.
When it came, I felt it in the walls of my chest before I saw it in the sky. Words moved like wind through the spaces between people, lifting dust where nothing had been swept clean. The force was not in thunder, but in the way it pressed against the heart, testing where the cracks had deepened.
After, the ground was littered with what the storm had made visible…..broken beams of trust, shattered fragments of understanding, pieces of history scattered and unclaimed. I walked through it all barefoot for days, writing and feeling the sharp edges, deciding which wounds I was willing to tend to, and which would be left to weather on their own, for now anyways.
There is a strange kind of clarity in the second wall, maybe I didn’t see more before it, like I did this one. The first takes what it can reach. The second shows you what’s truly anchored and what only looked strong until the wind shifted.
And once you know the difference, you cannot unknow it.
The work is more of becoming, again, unraveling years already healed and placed away as wisdom show up to shake you and see how strong your foundation, really is.
~Kerri-Elizabeth~
This is one step in a series that moves through storms both seen and unseen, each one reshaping the landscape in ways that cannot be undone. The next tide is already building, and what it leaves or takes will tell the next part of the story.
The calm at the center is never the end, only the breath before the breaking.
The eye of the storm
is a dangerous kindness
a pause that lets you believe
the worst has passed.
But brisk breezes always comes,
and when it does,
you learn the shape of your own shelter,
the sound of your own voice
calling yourself home.
After it breaks,
you walk barefoot through the wreckage,
feeling for the edges of what’s still whole.
Not everything scattered
was worth keeping.
Not everything left standing
is meant to stay.
Sometimes survival
is not about rebuilding
it’s about learning
how to breathe
in the spaces
the wind has cleared.
~Kerri-Elizabeth-
The storms we survive are not just weather they are mirrors, showing us what cannot be moved, and what we can no longer carry. This series walks those paths, one day at a time, through the shifting light after the eye has passed. The next part waits just beyond the next gust.
SONSHINE FOR YOU 