“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.
“Even here where the earth gives way, the heart learns to root deeper.”
It was built on what looked like stone.
Strong, unmoving, safe.
But stone can be deceiving.
Over time, it begins to whisper back to the sea,
grain by grain,
returning to what it came from.
From a distance, the house still shines.
The windows reflect the light,
the roof holds steady against the rain.
echoes of laughter,
But if you dare stand close,
you feel the tremor beneath your feet.
The earth is shifting,
the cliff surrendering its shape.
Inside those walls are memories,
arguments sharp as broken glass,
footsteps that once pressed into the floorboards
and then walked away.
The house holds them still,
but the ground does not promise to.
And yet,
love remains.
Not the kind that anchors the walls in place,
but the kind that drifts like mist,
carried by wind and tide.
Love that no longer clings to presence,
but transforms into distance,
into respect,
into silence that is still holy.
The house leans closer each day,
its weight too much for the cliff to hold.
And in the waiting,
You do not know the hour of its fall,
only that it is coming.
you learn to stand in stillness,
to send love out like a breath into the ethers,
trusting it will reach
even those who no longer sit beside you.
Because sometimes love is not received,
not returned,
not even recognized.
Sometimes love is simply released,
unbound by time,
unshaken by space,
a light traveling where it is most needed.
And so you stand,
watching the cliff crumble,
hearing the hush before the collapse.
Not afraid.
Not clinging.
Only witnessing.
Only loving.
Next week, the storm gathers again…
~Kerri-Elizabeth~
The fall has not yet come, but the silence before it is deafening. Next week, the storm gathers again…
“Love never fails; it simply reshapes itself and makes room to breathe. Rejection may look the same, but its essence is different.”
Rejection is not always loud.
Sometimes it comes as absence
a chair left empty,
a phone that does not ring,
a silence that stretches longer than the horizon.
At first, it feels like a mistake.
Surely the echo will fade,
surely the door will open again.
But silence can harden,
it can become a wall,
and soon you realize you are standing
on the outside looking in.
Rejection leaves a mark,
but it also leaves clarity.
It teaches you where love was conditional,
where belonging was borrowed,
where you tried to plant gardens
in soil that was never fertile.
And yet,
love itself is not gone.
It does not die with distance.
It reshapes,
becoming the wind that carries your prayers,
the river that flows unseen beneath the earth,
the light that reaches across time and space
to whisper:
“I am still here, even if we are apart.”
In this echo,
you learn that love does not need to be received
to remain true.
It can be given freely,
released like seeds into the wind,
trusting they will root where they must.
The ground is shifting again… and the house leans closer to the edge.
~Kerri-Elizabeth~
The echo does not fade. It sharpens, carrying the weight of what is slipping away. Tomorrow, the house leans closer to the edge, and the ground begins to give.
The waiting room is not a place,
it is a season.
A space where clocks seem broken,
where time moves at an almost still water pace
present, yet unmoving.
You sit. You breathe.
You listen to the hum of unseen decisions
being shuffled behind invisible doors.
Every paper shuffled feels like a wind in the trees,
rustling with answers
you are not yet meant to hear.
Waiting stretches you.
It teaches that surrender is not defeat,
but a kind of quiet strength.
A knowing that love can hold you steady
even when the outcome trembles.
Through the window,
you see clouds piling in the distance.
They are , layered,
behind them the sun keeps burning,
unmoved by delay.
And in the silence,
you remember:
the sun does not rush,
and yet it always arrives.
You whisper love into the air,
not asking it to return,
only asking it to travel,
to find who it needs to reach.
The waiting is heavy,
but the love is light enough to carry.
And not all doors open into light…
~Kerri-Elizabeth~
The silence is thick, the outcome unseen. Somewhere beyond the door, decisions stir. Tomorrow, absence itself will take its place at the table.
“At the edge of shadows, light waits to be seen, reminding us that endings are only thresholds to another beginning.”
Change doesn’t always come crashing.
Sometimes it lingers at the edges,
the way dusk slowly unravels daylight,
barely noticed until the sky is no longer blue.
There is a silence that weighs heavier than words.
It doesn’t scream, doesn’t accuse
it simply waits,
like a shadow just out of reach,
asking you to notice what has already shifted.
You walk through the day as if nothing has changed,
yet the air tastes different,
like rain just before it falls.
The trees seem to lean in,
the wind carries whispers you can’t quite hold.
Trust is not stolen in a single act,
it erodes,
grain by grain,
like cliffs giving way to the sea.
And by the time you notice the hollow beneath your feet,
the land is already gone.
You learn to sit with the silence,
to watch without rushing,
to let stillness teach you what words never will.
Because even in the shadows,
love can take new form
not the love that clings,
but the kind that releases into the wind,
trusting it will reach where it needs to go.
And somewhere in that silence, a storm is still gathering…
~Kerri-Elizabeth~
And still, the silence grows heavier, pressing against the walls of certainty. What happens when it finally breaks? Tomorrow, the storm begins to scatter its disguise.
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Every wave redraws the shoreline, leaving quiet instructions in its wake.
When the water finally pulled back, it did not return the world as it was. The shore had shifted ,lines carved where none had been before, sand pressed into patterns that would not wash away with the next tide.
It’s easy to think of waves as destroyers, but they are also cartographers. They leave maps in the debris, in the placement of stones, in the curve of driftwood that marks the farthest reach of the flood.
If you stand still long enough, you begin to read it ,the way the water circled here, the way it slammed straight through there, the places it spared without reason. The patterns are not for beauty; they are for understanding.
There is no rushing this kind of knowledge.
You trace the edges of what has changed, your feet sinking into new ground that has already decided what it will hold and what it will never keep again.
And in those moments, you see it clearly: the map is not for finding your way back. It is for showing you the way forward, through a landscape you would never have recognized before the tide touched it.
~Kerri-Elizabeth~
This series follows the slow work of storms and tides, charting the spaces they leave behind. Tomorrow, the current turns toward what it means to rebuild in the quiet , not as it was before, but as it can be now.
Sometimes the hardest part of the storm is realizing the calm was never the end.
The calm came like an unearned mercy ,the kind that makes you believe the worst is behind you. The air felt lighter, almost sweet. For a moment, you let yourself imagine the storm had passed, that the tearing down was finished.
But calm can be a trickster.
It can be the still breath before the second wall arrives ,heavier, sharper, and carrying what the first did not take.
When it came, I felt it in the walls of my chest before I saw it in the sky. Words moved like wind through the spaces between people, lifting dust where nothing had been swept clean. The force was not in thunder, but in the way it pressed against the heart, testing where the cracks had deepened.
After, the ground was littered with what the storm had made visible…..broken beams of trust, shattered fragments of understanding, pieces of history scattered and unclaimed. I walked through it all barefoot for days, writing and feeling the sharp edges, deciding which wounds I was willing to tend to, and which would be left to weather on their own, for now anyways.
There is a strange kind of clarity in the second wall, maybe I didn’t see more before it, like I did this one. The first takes what it can reach. The second shows you what’s truly anchored and what only looked strong until the wind shifted.
And once you know the difference, you cannot unknow it.
The work is more of becoming, again, unraveling years already healed and placed away as wisdom show up to shake you and see how strong your foundation, really is.
~Kerri-Elizabeth~
This is one step in a series that moves through storms both seen and unseen, each one reshaping the landscape in ways that cannot be undone. The next tide is already building, and what it leaves or takes will tell the next part of the story.
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.
We’ve been taught to run.
Taught that pain is something to fix.
That discomfort means something’s gone wrong.
That a heavy feeling in the chest or a longing in the heart must be pushed away, stuffed down, or labeled as “bad.”
But what if that’s never what it was?
What if that ache is awareness?
A sacred nudge toward what wants to grow?
What if the longing is not lack, but a compass pointing toward change?
What if pain isn’t a punishment, but a messenger—
not to escape, but to engage?
We often assume pain is the opposite of progress.
But the truth?
The most profound art,
the most enduring love,
the richest wisdom,
and the most awe-inspiring growth
has always begun in the soil of the not-so-glorious.
It is not from our perfectly curated moments that truth emerges.
It is from the cracks, the tremors, the missteps, and the quiet spaces where the world doesn’t quite make sense.
That’s where clarity lives.
That’s where strength is forged.
Not in the absence of hurt,
but in walking through it with a willingness to see what it’s really offering.
Pain and growth are dance partners.
They collide regularly—and on purpose.
We waste so much energy trying to disappear the discomfort,
instead of listening to it.
Instead of witnessing its tears.
Instead of offering it presence.
We try to escape it.
Numb it.
Shame it away.
But what if you can’t escape because you’re not supposed to?
What if it’s not a mountain, just a hill—and turning back now means you’ll never know what the view looks like from the other side?
When we panic, when we waiver, when we doubt our capacity to feel,
we shrink back into survival.
Into the belief that we won’t make it if we truly let ourselves feel what’s here.
But observe.
Just observe.
That’s where transformation begins.
That’s where the words are born,
the lessons etched into time,
the wisdom passed through generations.
Let’s not be so quick to fix what hurts.
Let’s not retreat so quickly that we miss the beauty within the breaking.
Because in skipping over our destination points—just because we were told they were wrong—we miss the waypoints of our becoming.
~Kerri Elizabeth~
Instead, ask:
Does this pain grow me or hold me in place?
Is this discomfort guiding me closer to myself or pulling me away from what’s true?
When you stop escaping and start observing,
you may find that what you feared was destroying you
is actually delivering you
into more of who you are.
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 