Healing

“Listening to Your Inner Knowing: Healing Through Stillness and Truth”

Posted on by Kerri Elizabeth

More than one growing together with its own definition, not to be the other, but instead to highlight both dark and light to show up in the middle as the sunrise and sunset, that is where beauty shines.

We trust so many things without ever touching them.
Without holding them up to the light,
without asking how they feel in our own body,
our own heart,
our own knowing.

We trust because it’s easier, faster —
because we’re tired.
We’ve been taught to trust what’s already packaged and repeated.
To scroll, absorb, accept.

But not everything you’re given is meant to be yours.
And not every truth belongs on your skin.

Years ago, a man watched water in a moonlit stream.
Not through a microscope,
but through the lens of stillness,
and the wild reverence of someone who listened to nature.

Viktor Schauberger.
A name many will never hear.

He followed the movement of water like it was alive —
and it is.

“They call me deranged… But if I am right and science is wrong… may God help mankind.”

He wasn’t just speaking of water.
He was warning us.
That intuition, when silenced, becomes prophecy unheeded.
That nature, when ignored, will find other ways to speak.

We’ve forgotten the language of touch, of sense,
of sitting still long enough to let our own nervous system
guide us back to center.

We fear the plants we were told not to touch.
Even now, after they’ve shown their healing.
We wait for permission to use what was already gifted
by the earth, by God, by the breath that first woke us.

We trust what’s loud,
and overlook what’s ancient.

And it’s no wonder.

We are not living in stillness.
We are surviving in stimulation.

There’s a flood of voices,
each one offering the cure, the fix, the next best way.
One day you’re saved.
The next day you’re wrong.
Everything changes by the algorithm’s pulse.

How do we live inside that noise
and still hear what’s true?

The answer doesn’t come from more knowing.
It comes from returning.
To yourself.

Not the version that’s always learning, always pleasing, always pushing —
but the version that still sits under trees and breathes in silence.
That part of you who remembers.
Who already knows.

You can’t buy that knowing.
You can’t find it in someone else’s steps.
It only lives where you do.

Sit still, even if it’s uncomfortable.
Turn off the sounds.
Step into the trees.
Let nature speak without interruption.

You may feel fear at first —
the fear of your own thoughts,
your own emptiness.

But that emptiness isn’t hollow.
It’s sacred.
It’s where the voice of your Creator still hums.
Not loudly. Not demandingly.
Just… waiting.

We all carry spaces we haven’t touched yet.
Places inside we’ve filled with someone else’s story.
Beliefs that don’t fit.
Triggers that haven’t been soothed.
Emotions we never learned how to sit with.

But if we want to heal —
if we want to truly know —
we have to stop outsourcing ourselves.

You can’t be loved in your fullness
if you don’t first live there.

 On Love, Wholeness, and Belonging

We barely know how to be in relationship anymore —
not because we don’t want love,
but because love has been layered with fear.

We’re taught that to keep someone close, we must please them.
That love means sacrifice of self,
and that rejection is the cost of being honest.

We start to doubt ourselves.
To assume others must think what we think.
To believe that two becoming one
means we lose something essential in order to belong.

But true belonging doesn’t come from ownership.
It isn’t found in control or in bending to stay wanted.

One and one do not become one.
One and one remain two whole beings —
choosing to walk together,
flowing like river and earth,
like tree and fruit,
each shaped by the other
but never demanded to be less than what it is.

Yes, we intertwine.
Yes, we influence.
But the gift of love is growth,
not reduction.

Two become more when they remain whole.

 Where It All Flows Together

We are made of contrast.
We are not just joy or just pain.
We are the weaving of both —
the ache and the awe living side by side.

Love isn’t just soft.
Sometimes it’s sharp.
It shows us where we’ve gone missing inside ourselves
and invites us to return.

Pain isn’t punishment.
It’s often the invitation.
A crack that lets the new voice echo through —
the one we’d silenced for far too long.

There is light.
And there is shadow.
Both belong.
Both speak truth.

Grief isn’t the opposite of healing.
It is healing,
when we let it move through us
instead of freeze within us.

And joy — real joy —
isn’t shallow.
It’s made deeper by all the places we’ve been
where joy was far from reach.
It’s not the skipping over.
It’s the rising after sinking.

We rush so quickly —
through minutes, through meaning —
as if depth will wait for us.
But truth lives in the slow.
In the pause.
In the breath that asks,
“Do you feel this?”

To be whole,
we must let it all flow together.
Not filtered.
Not compartmentalized.
But lived.

Awareness is the alchemy.
It’s not that we must choose light or dark,
joy or sorrow, love or sadness
It’s that we become the space that allows them to coexist
without shame.
That is where truth resonates —
in the fullness of the human experience
embraced without fear.

 Can you hear that? Dont trust me, instead listen for yourself.

The voice that created you —
is still there.
Still speaking.
Not through screens,
but through wind.
Through intuition.
Through breath.

Can you hear it?

-Kerri-Elizabeth-

The Stories We Carry

Posted on by 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-

Stay True

Posted on by Kerri Elizabeth

Stay soft
even when the world feels hard.
Stay true
even when no one sees you.

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-

Walking Through the Perception of Pain

Posted on by Kerri Elizabeth

BE AWARE OF HOW YOU SEE YOURSELF, THATS THE SAME VIEW YOU SEE THE WORLD THROUGH.

There comes a time when running no longer works—
when the ache doesn’t lessen with distance,
when the echo of pain waits for you at the next bend.
It is not weakness to pause.
It is strength to stay, to look directly into the eyes of discomfort
and ask it: What are you here to show me?

Walking through the pain is not about conquering it—
it’s about knowing it.
Seeing its colors, hearing its rhythm,
feeling the way it shifts your breath, your stance, your gaze.
Sometimes it’s a loud throb that demands your attention,
other times it’s a subtle whisper,
a pulse in the background of your choices.

Is it really pain—or is it the story you were told about pain?
Do you respond out of memory, out of programming,
or from presence, clarity, and truth?

Pain can be an ally in transformation
when we stop anticipating its arrival with fear
and start witnessing it as a bridge—
an invitation to expand.

Ask yourself:
– Why am I walking away?
– Am I avoiding hurt, or avoiding growth?
– Can I stay here, still and strong,
not to suffer but to see?

Life will test you.
That’s a promise.
But how you define those tests is up to you.
Are they punishments—or portals?

You can do hard things.
With grace.
With steady breath.
With the knowing that pain
is not your identity
but a teacher passing through.

When you choose to walk through it,
you walk into a new version of yourself.
One who didn’t skip the chapter,
but read it aloud
and found truth in its lines.

Let others react how they do—
some will shut down, some will turn away,
some will lash out.
That doesn’t define your path.
Let your response be rooted in wisdom,
not reflex.
Let your heart rate be a compass,
not a warning siren.
And let your stillness reveal
the power you’ve always had.

Poem: The Walk

I walked not because I had nowhere to go,
but because I had somewhere to arrive within.
The road cracked beneath my bare feet—
not to injure me,
but to open what I buried long ago.

Pain was not the enemy.
It was the door.
And I—
I became the key.

I stopped naming it sorrow
and started calling it strength.
I stopped listening to fear
and started listening to breath.

Every tremble became a prayer.
Every pause, a song of endurance.
I walked, not to escape,
but to enter.

Not to fight,
but to finally feel.

-Kerri-Elizabeth-

The Space Between Our Timing

Posted on by Kerri Elizabeth

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?

Becoming Me: From Movement to Meaning

Posted on by Kerri Elizabeth

There was a time when health meant how much I could do, how much I could carry, how long I could push before resting. I worked out with intensity, studied every herb, food, and method that could improve strength or reduce fat. The knowledge I gained was real, the discipline was real—but the peace was missing.

What I didn’t realize then was how much I was bypassing the essence of health: how I felt.
Not just physically—but emotionally, spiritually, soulfully.

I’ve always loved creating things by hand. Oils, salves, teas, tinctures, healing masks from spring water and clay, or wild herbs from trails I walked barefoot. Nature was always whispering truth—I just wasn’t still enough to fully listen.

While I still love fitness, clean food, herbal medicine, and conscious care for the body, I no longer confuse output with worth. I no longer miss the sacred moment just to be—to breathe, to rest, to listen.

I’ve learned that beauty is not just in appearance.
It’s in presence. It’s in the natural glow that comes from joy, peace, connection.
Rosing cheeks and clarity in the eyes can come from a moment in the sun, a homemade mask from riverbed mud, or laughter with someone you love.

I’ve also realized that listening deeply—especially to my children’s perspectives—requires that same presence. Each of my children experienced their childhood differently. Some of their stories don’t match mine. But I’ve learned to hear them, to honor their voices without needing to defend or reshape mine. That, too, is healing.

I no longer try to fix everything or keep everyone close.
Instead, I honor where we all are—right now.
I’ve chosen to be me.
Not a version of what anyone else needs, but an honest, whole, and healing version of who I am becoming.

The Truth of Wellness

I used to measure wellness
by how much I could carry,
how much I could do
without breaking.

I didn’t know
that strength
wasn’t in the weight I lifted,
but in the grace
of letting go.

I’ve found more beauty
in riverbeds and spring mud
than any sculpted space indoors.
The color in my cheeks
comes now from earth and breath,
from silence and wind,
from honoring my body
instead of managing it.

Now I listen—

To the garden as it teaches,
to the ache of my heart
that just needs time, not judgment,
to the knowing that rises
when I’m still enough
to receive it.

Healing isn’t a product.
It’s presence.
It’s allowing life
to move through me
without needing to control
how it looks.
It’s feeling good—
and letting that be enough.

-Kerri-Elizabeth-

He’s Here

Posted on by Kerri Elizabeth

He appears with a smile, putting on a show, still the entertainer!

Subtle white flakes falling from the sky

Branches catching them as they go by

Blue skies experiencing a new hue

Wonder explodes in design

A new view is defined

Revealing a show

More starts to flow

Mesmerized in the moment

Entertained by the miracles of the sky

A smile appears

He’s here

~Kerri-Elizabeth~

I see you my child in all you do, I’m always entertained by your humor and joy that falls from the sky while you leave smiles going by.

I love you forever Zakary Ryan, I see you!

Creating you a masterpiece

Posted on by Kerri Elizabeth

Through every stroke a story is unfolded

Colors weave together with an emotional dance

Intertwined with laughter and joy as well as sorrow

Every petal kissed by the sunlight

Created in full bloom

Forever frozen in a sunflower petal is love

Love that continues to unfold

Imagine the travels throughout these color blends

Making trails of new insights

New beginnings

Memories launched into bloom to last forever

Others to be imagined further through this masterpiece for you

~Kerri Elizabeth~

Posted on by Kerri Elizabeth

Posted on by Kerri Elizabeth