“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.
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.
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-
SONSHINE FOR YOU 