“Joy and sorrow are different verses of the same song.”
Light can touch a tear,
and neither need to hide,
love can hold the ache,
and still feel whole inside.
The heart learns gentle balance,
between the loss and bloom,
both can live together,
and share the same room.
-Kerri-Elizabeth-
Tomorrow, October will come to a close with a very special surprise, leaving nothing unsaid and everything to ponder.
“Cleansing is not letting go of love, it is making room for it to move more freely.”
This week was not loud, or easy. It was a week of walking gently through silence, noticing what lingers and what begins to stir. The reflected stillness, yet stillness itself was full of memory, of love, of truths preparing to step into the light.
October asks for cleansing. It asks for a slowing down, to feel what has been carried, to honor transitions, ours and others, without any added definition or judgements. It invites strength through softness, courage through listening, and healing through awareness.
Even in silence, there is motion. Even in waiting, there is growth, even in absence, love is the presence that carries it all.
-Kerri-Elizabeth-
Next week, October’s stillness will meet October’s unveiling, and the light will not be held back.
“Light never leaves, it shifts, it softens, it guides.”
A glow in the distance,
its flame teases, dim then bright,
a steady kind of whisper,
that warms the edge of night.
It doesn’t chase the shadows,
it doesn’t force them gone,
it simply keeps on shining,
like a quiet guiding song.
-Kerri-Elizabeth-
By tomorrow, the glow will meet the horizon, and the horizon will answer back.
“Physical absence does not move love away, it shows us how deeply it remains.”
October always arrived carrying lanterns unseen. They glowed quietly, guiding steps through the fog, reminding that presence is not limited to what we touch.
The lanterns belonged to memory, to love that had shifted form, to a connection that time could not unravel. Even as years moved faster than seemed possible, love remained steady. Each flame flickered with guidance, urging forward without losing what had been.
The month is not heavy in despair, but rich in reflection. It asks for slowing down, for honoring what cannot be replaced, for finding strength not by resisting, but by walking with it.
-Kerri-Elizabeth-
Tomorrow, the lanterns will stretch their glow further, casting gentle light into hidden corners.
“Stillness holds the softest truths, if we dare to listen.”
The quiet is not hollow,
it hums beneath the air,
a gentle kind of holding,
a presence always there.
No need for sharp reminders,
the silence speaks enough,
in stillness hearts grow softer,
in waiting we find trust.
-Kerri-Elizabeth-
By tomorrow, the stillness will shift into a light that cannot be ignored.
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.
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.
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.
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-
There is a version of you the world thinks it knows.
There is also a version of you that lives in the quiet — in the space between heartbeats, in the soft whisper of intuition, in the gaze that lingers a moment longer when you see yourself clearly.
The hardest work you will ever do is unravel the parts of yourself that were pieced together by survival… and not by truth.
To notice the difference between what you agreed to in fear and what you would choose in love.
Because we don’t arrive at authenticity by accident.
We earn it — choice by choice, no by no, letting go by letting go.
And sometimes, you will disappoint others when you begin to honor yourself.
You will stand in rooms where your truth echoes uncomfortably against the walls of another’s expectation.
You will feel the weight of misunderstanding, the sting of judgment, the silence of those who no longer recognize you.
But if the choice is between being seen for who you are not,
or misunderstood while standing in the light of who you are…
Choose the light. Every time.
Because what you allow teaches others how to treat you.
And if you allow falsehoods to define you,
don’t be surprised when they do.
When you people-please your way into connection,
it often comes at the cost of feeling truly seen.
And that ache—the ache of self-betrayal—
is more enduring than anyone else’s disapproval.
So let it be said:
To live with integrity is not to be perfect.
It is to be honest with where you are today,
even knowing tomorrow may evolve you.
It is to say: “This is where I stand now. You are welcome to grow with me, or not.”
There is no shame in change.
There is no failure in outgrowing the places where your voice once trembled.
There is only life — pulsing, stretching, remaking itself through you.
And when your head hits the pillow at night,
may you feel the quiet reward of self-alignment —
that even if the world misunderstood you,
you did not misunderstand yourself.
I’ve pieced myself together with strands both light and worn,
some tied in silence, some frayed and torn.
I carried the weight of being the calm,
the one who holds peace, the steady palm.
But I haven’t always waited or stood still.
There were times I rushed in, led by will.
When reaction came before reflection,
and pain spoke louder than connection.
Learning to sit with what stirs inside,
to let the emotion rise, then slide —
that’s been the work, the slow repair,
to stay, to breathe, to truly care.
One day I looked and quietly asked,
“Is this really me, or just a mask?”
I paused at the edges where I’d come undone,
and slowly began to face what I’d outrun.
Not everyone cheers when you stand in your skin —
some only loved the shape you’d been.
But pretending is heavy, and silence loud,
and I’d rather be honest than make others proud.
So I gather what’s real, thread by thread,
not perfect, not polished, but true instead.
A life made of moments I won’t need to hide —
not always easy, but lived from inside.
-Kerri-Elizabeth-
Where in your life are you still weaving with threads that no longer feel true? What would it look like to begin again with honesty?
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-
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-
There’s a kind of expansion that doesn’t look like more doing, more chasing, or more becoming.
It looks like shedding.
Softening.
Listening to what’s already been whispering inside for years.
People ask all the time—
What do you take?
What do you eat?
What do you think about this herb or that cleanse?
But the deeper truth is this:
The best health advice I can ever offer
Is to turn down the noise
And ask yourself…
How do you feel?
Are you rested or are you rushing on borrowed energy?
Do you move your body because it brings you life,
Or because you’re trying to fix what was never broken?
Do you fall into sleep like a prayer
or collapse into it like a last resort?
How much of your day is spent
in silence,
in breath,
in the untangling of thought from truth?
Do you scrub your skin like punishment
or like ceremony—
exfoliating the layers not just of yesterday’s dust,
but of the weight you’ve carried too long?
We hold the antidote inside.
Not in a bottle,
Not in someone else’s method or miracle,
But in our ability to return
to presence,
to rhythm,
to the quiet knowing we’ve always had.
There’s a lot out there telling us how to feel better,
how to do more,
how to chase a version of beauty that was never our own.
But what if we’re not meant to do more?
What if we’re meant to realign where we give our effort—
To stop over-performing in some areas
and under-nourishing others?
What if your wholeness doesn’t need to be earned,
only remembered?
We are not trends.
We are not opinions.
We are not before-and-after stories.
We are stories still being told,
and no one else gets to hold the pen.
Expansion is personal.
It begins with small choices that honor what’s real:
a breath,
a stretch,
a kind word to the mirror,
a walk without your phone,
a plate of vibrant food grown in soil, not manufactured in labs.
Play your instrument.
Take the trip.
Paint what you see in your dreams.
But do it because something inside you calls you forward—
not because an algorithm says you should.
You don’t need to change who you are.
You just need to come back to yourself.
And from there,
everything expands.
-Kerri-Elizabeth-
SONSHINE FOR YOU 