grief and growth

What the Rain Knows

Posted on by Kerri Elizabeth


“Hope holds us when we cannot move, but water teaches us how to move again

Rain never asks permission to fall.
It arrives when the air can no longer hold what it’s carrying.
Not as punishment.
Not as collapse.
But as release.

Water understands something we often forget:
nothing clears without movement.

There are seasons when hope is all we have.
When direction feels unreachable.
When answers refuse to form.
When the body freezes and the mind circles, waiting for something, anything, to change.

Hope can be a lifeline in those moments.
It keeps us breathing when clarity hasn’t arrived.
It steadies us inside uncertainty.

But hope alone can also keep us suspended,
standing still, eyes lifted outward,
waiting for resolution to arrive from somewhere else.

Rain doesn’t wait like that.

Rain moves through.

It washes what has been held too tightly.
It softens what has become rigid with fear.
It carries away residue we didn’t know we were storing.
Tears do the same.
So does breath.
So does hydration.
So does allowing emotion to pass instead of calcify.

Water doesn’t erase the past,
it reveals what’s been buried beneath it.

When life feels paralyzing,
when anxiety locks the body in place,
when trauma makes the future feel unreachable,
hope may be the hand we cling to,
but movement is what teaches us how to stand again.

Not forced movement.
Not answers.
Not solutions.

Just the willingness to let something flow.

This next season isn’t about finding direction all at once.
It’s about letting what’s been held finally move.
So what’s real can appear.
So what’s grounded can take shape.
So hope can become something you walk with,
not something holding you in place.

-Kerri-Elizabeth-
In the days ahead, we’ll listen to what water teaches,
about release, renewal, and the quiet strength that returns after the rain.

The Waters We Come From

Posted on by Kerri Elizabeth

“Time didn’t take me, it grew me.”

~Kerri Elizabeth~

Time moves like water—fluid, steady, and often unnoticed until we stop to feel its depth.

One day, you’re raising four children under one roof. The next, you’re watching them raise their own—each carving their unique path through the landscape of life. Some close, some far, some seen only in spirit. You could never have imagined it all unfolding this way. At their age, the future felt like a myth. Now, I live it daily. Not by reaching for what’s ahead, but by anchoring myself fully in today.

As I sit quietly with a fresh breeze brushing across the lake, I’m reminded how water has always spoken to me. It’s been a teacher. A comforter. A mirror. From floods in childhood to moonlit swims and the scent of salt and minerals clinging to my skin—it all remains, floating in memory.

Each body of water holds a story. Each ripple, a reflection of growth, grief, grace.

Sitting atop a mountain, a lake looks small. But in it, it feels endless. Life is like that. From above, a season looks brief. From within, it can feel infinite.

I think of the nourishment the Earth offers us—the way the water heals, the soil grounds, the sun energizes, and the breeze renews. The wisdom of nature is a retreat for the soul, and a reminder that healing is not always something we do, but something we allow.

Where the Waters Teach

I am the parent,

of the parents,

once the child,

now the still shore.

Where water once rushed

through muddy childhood floods,

now it moves through

quiet lines on my face—

each one etched with memory.

Some children are near,

some carried by the wind,

and one

rides the current between realms.

I don’t reach forward anymore.

I dwell.

In birdsong.

In sunlight through cedar.

In the mineral kiss of the lake.

Time didn’t take me,

it grew me.

And here I float,

held by waters

that knew me before I knew myself.

The Waters We Come From

Posted on by Kerri Elizabeth

“Time didn’t take me, it grew me.”

~Kerri Elizabeth~

Time moves like water—fluid, steady, and often unnoticed until we stop to feel its depth.

One day, you’re raising four children under one roof. The next, you’re watching them raise their own—each carving their unique path through the landscape of life. Some close, some far, some seen only in spirit. You could never have imagined it all unfolding this way. At their age, the future felt like a myth. Now, I live it daily. Not by reaching for what’s ahead, but by anchoring myself fully in today.

As I sit quietly with a fresh breeze brushing across the lake, I’m reminded how water has always spoken to me. It’s been a teacher. A comforter. A mirror. From floods in childhood to moonlit swims and the scent of salt and minerals clinging to my skin—it all remains, floating in memory.

Each body of water holds a story. Each ripple, a reflection of growth, grief, grace.

Sitting atop a mountain, a lake looks small. But in it, it feels endless. Life is like that. From above, a season looks brief. From within, it can feel infinite.

I think of the nourishment the Earth offers us—the way the water heals, the soil grounds, the sun energizes, and the breeze renews. The wisdom of nature is a retreat for the soul, and a reminder that healing is not always something we do, but something we allow.

Where the Waters Teach

I am the parent,

of the parents,

once the child,

now the still shore.

Where water once rushed

through muddy childhood floods,

now it moves through

quiet lines on my face—

each one etched with memory.

Some children are near,

some carried by the wind,

and one

rides the current between realms.

I don’t reach forward anymore.

I dwell.

In birdsong.

In sunlight through cedar.

In the mineral kiss of the lake.

Time didn’t take me,

it grew me.

And here I float,

held by waters

that knew me before I knew myself.