Forgiveness is not a reunion. It does not guarantee closeness. It does not erase history. Forgiveness simply removes the emotional bondage that keeps your heart tied to what hurt you.
You can forgive someone and still never speak to them again. You can release resentment without reopening the door. You can find peace without forcing connection. Your heart can soften without losing its discernment.
Let forgiveness be a warm breath in winter, gentle, unforced, expecting nothing in return.
Gentle Practice: Whisper: “I release you, but I do not return to what harmed me.”
-Kerri-Elizabeth-
Tomorrow: When apologies never come or are expected, how to stop waiting for closure you can give yourself.
“Change does not ask permission, it simply reminds us it is always there.”
The leaves had begun their slow burn of color. Gold and crimson drifted through the air like small notes of surrender. There was no resistance, only rhythm.
Watching them fall felt like watching truth land gently where it belonged. Nothing forced, nothing rushed. Just the quiet understanding that what is ready to release will do so in its own time.
Some changes were visible, others unseen, but all belonged to the same cycle, light revealing what darkness had prepared.
-Kerri-Elizabeth- Tomorrow, the wind will carry these colors farther, spreading messages of release and renewal.
“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.
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.
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 