“Patience is the highest form of strength.”
Softness is not weakness, it’s precision. It knows when to speak and when to wait.
To stay open in a world of reaction is a daily discipline, one that builds invisible muscles of compassion.
-Kerri-Elizabeth-
When tension rises today, breathe before you respond. Let the breath be your teacher of calm power.
Tomorrow, we gather everything learned this week and return it to light.
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.
Some stand on the shore, torn between the pull of two tides, afraid to lose sight of either horizon.
There are places where the heart feels pulled in opposite directions , a delicate thread stretched between two shores, never sure which way the wind will blow.
Sometimes it is not the storm itself that wears you down, but the weight of holding both the anchor and the sail. One hand clings to the dock, the other reaches for open water, and you are left wondering which will give first.
To love people who stand on different sides is to live in a constant negotiation with yourself ,how to hold loyalty without losing truth, how to be faithful to more than one compass at a time. Those who live there often believe they are keeping the peace, yet they walk on a bridge that sways over a chasm neither side wishes to see.
But bridges creak under the strain. And when the wind shifts, the boards remind you that you cannot belong to both shores without feeling the splinters.
There are moments when you hope for a stand, not a battle, but a quiet, unwavering refusal to join what is wrong, even if it comes dressed in silk and lace. It is the unseen courage you long for, the voice that says, I see the harm in this, and I will not step into it.
When that voice is silent, you feel it in your bones. You watch the gatherings where absence has been engineered, the empty chairs where history once sat. You stand at the edge of the celebration and feel the chill of being placed in the shadows, while strangers are handed the front row.
It is a strange ache, to grieve what is still alive. To watch laughter carry a song that once belonged to your deepest mourning, and realize it is being danced upon without you.
And yet, even in that ache, you may still plant flowers along the invisible fence , sun-warm petals and soft-leafed roses , as both gift and boundary. A way of saying, I see you, I love you, and here is where the water meets the land. Even if the gesture is misunderstood, even if it is whispered against, you know the truth of your own hands and the soil they tended.
Somewhere inside, you know that the journey back to one another is not entirely yours to navigate. Sometimes you cannot swim against both tides. Sometimes you have to anchor to your own truth, and let the currents choose what washes back to shore.
~Kerri-Elizabeth~
But tides never rest for long. Tomorrow, we enter “After the Eye” , where the stillness is a trick of light, and the storm, patient as a predator, waits just beyond the horizon.
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~
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-
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-
SONSHINE FOR YOU 