“Closure is not something they give you, it’s something you decide.”
Some people will never say “I’m sorry.” Not because you weren’t hurt, but because we see ourselves and others differently when hurt is presented.
Stop waiting for their words to free you. Your healing is not dependent on their accountability, only yours. It’s dependent on your courage to release the story that keeps you small.
Your heart deserves peace that doesn’t rely on someone else’s awakening.
Gentle Practice: Close your eyes and say: “The closure I needed is the peace I choose.”
-Kerri-Elizabeth- Tomorrow we explore choosing space, not out of resentment, but out of emotional maturity.
“Being alone is an art, and it deserves attention.”
Solitude in December feels different. It’s deeper. Quieter. More reflective.
Being alone doesn’t mean you’re unloved. It means you’re learning to hear yourself. It means you’re learning to enjoy your own company. It means you’re creating a home inside yourself that no one can take away.
Sit with yourself kindly. Let silence become a friend. You are more whole than you’ve ever realized.
Gentle practice: Do one small thing alone today that feels nourishing: tea, a walk, a bath, a song, a journal page.
-Kerri-Elizabeth- Tomorrow, we’ll talk about chosen togetherness, the kind that doesn’t drain.
“Winter doesn’t ask you to be strong, only honest.”
The first days of December nudge us inward. Not to hide… but to see. To notice what’s tender, what’s tired, what’s ready for change. You don’t have to reinvent your life today, just listen. Winter is the season where the soul whispers truths we rushed past all year.
Let the quiet teach you. Let the slower pace feel sacred instead of sad. You’re allowed to rest into yourself. You’re allowed to let the light return slowly.
When the season cools, the spirit warms, truth rises on its own time.
Gentle practice: Step outside for one minute. (Barefoot if you can) Notice the air on your skin. Let it reset your nervous system.
-Kerri-Elizabeth- Tomorrow, we’ll explore how sadness can become strength, not heaviness.
“You don’t heal by pretending, you heal by honoring.”
These two weeks have invited you to walk gently through the holidays: with your truth, your pace, your energy, your finances, your heart, your boundaries, and your lived wisdom.
You’ve learned that you can show up without losing yourself. That you can love without agreeing. That you can grieve without collapsing. That you can celebrate without performing. That you can create connection in small, meaningful ways. And that choosing yourself is not rejection, it is respect.
When you honor your design, peace returns. When you honor your heart, clarity unfolds. When you honor your truth, love becomes real again.
Gentle practice: Tonight, thank yourself for how you move through these weeks. Name the grace you give yourself.
-Kerri-Elizabeth- Tomorrow begins a new December series, one centered on a seasonal rythym, inner warmth, emotional nourishment, and the art of slowing down.
Sometimes love is the quiet allowing of someone else’s becoming.”
There is strength in giving space. When we stop needing others to understand us right away, something softens, both in them and in us. The pause becomes sacred ground, a place where truth can breathe without being forced.
Small practice:Today, resist the urge to correct or explain. Listen instead. Notice how stillness opens room for peace to enter.
-Kerri-Elizabeth- Tomorrow, we’ll listen in a different way, to the body that speaks when the mind is quiet.
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.
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.
SONSHINE FOR YOU 