“When old places and gatherings close, the heart does not have to close with it.”
You may not sit at the table you once knew. But that doesn’t mean you are without a place. Belonging can be rediscovered in surprising forms, in a quiet morning with someone who loves you, in a friend who says “come over,” in a walk by the lake, in a new ritual that feels more like freedom than loss.
When belonging shifts, it asks you to shift too. To create, not cling. To build, not beg. To make room for the life that is becoming yours now.
Belonging is not a location, it’s a light you learn to carry in you.
Gentle Practice: Choose one new ritual for Christmas Eve or Christmas Day. Let it be something small but meaningful.
-Kerri-Elizabeth- Tomorrow, we look at the courage to make Christmas different without sadness sitting at a new table.
“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.
“Resilience doesn’t erase the cracks, it teaches, where to shine light.”
The house stands again, its walls straight, its seams sealed. From the outside, all appears whole.
But wholeness is not the absence of breaks. It is the memory of them, the quiet strength they leave behind. The wood remembers the fracture. The stone remembers the weight. And in remembering, they endure differently, not in innocence, but in wisdom.
Rebuilding is not pretending nothing happened. It is honoring the cracks, welcoming the light that seeps through them, choosing to rise again, knowing that what was once broken can still hold, can still stand, can still carry.
Stillness settles differently after the storm. It carries the hum of survival, the rhythm of resilience, the quiet promise that nothing ends here, it only changes shape.
-Kerri-Elizabeth-
And just as the night leaned into rest, I felt it, a subtle shift, not to disturb the peace, but to remind me that even in rebuilding, life keeps moving, and tomorrow always asks us to meet it 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.
“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.
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.
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.
Even the fiercest wave can carry you home if you learn to trust its pull.
Grief comes in waves
not gentle tides,
but deep-water surges
that pull at the roots.
You can stand against it,
or let it take you
both are exhausting,
both leave you changed.
Grief is what we view,
based on what we can’t see anymore.
A tidal wave of loss.
There is also the grief you can see,
touching a different depth,
the kind that
requires another enduring perspective.
One that is received , with
or without permission.
Like waves laying upon a quiet beach,
the weight of water
is the weight of memory,
pressing against the chest
until every breath
is a choice.
When it recedes,
you find the shore altered
lines drawn where none were before,
stones rearranged,
driftwood marking where the tide reached last.
You learn to read those signs,
to know how far the waves can come
before they break you again.
And maybe,
just maybe,
you begin to trust
that even in the pull,
something is carrying you home.
~Kerri-Elizabeth~
Every wave changes the shoreline and every change leaves a map. This series moves with the water and the wind, through the quiet ache and the slow return. The next current rises tomorrow, and its direction is still unknown.
SONSHINE FOR YOU 