When you can’t see it, feel it, your heart already knows what fear and anxiety try to blur.
Sometimes things aren’t what they seem.
Not people.
Not moments.
Not choices.
Not even the silence that fills the space between them.
We live in a world where snap judgments happen faster than truth can unfold.
Where words once spoken by others can stain the image of someone they never truly knew.
Where assumptions dress themselves in certainty and walk confidently into misunderstandings.
But sometimes,
we’re asked to stand still,
to let the story reveal itself in its own timing,
to trust the unfolding even when our hearts ache for clarity.
There are moments when we want to speak, to correct the narrative,
but growth often asks us to stay quiet,
to let time become the translator between perception and truth.
We may be seen wrongly.
Misunderstood by those who weren’t present for the full picture.
Held accountable for choices not ours.
But even in the shadows of misjudgment,
our light still holds.
Our integrity doesn’t dim just because someone else refuses to see it.
Sometimes, we must live as witnesses
to our own resilience
doing our work,
living our lives,
trusting that what’s real doesn’t need convincing.
Because truth lives longer than rumor.
It breathes in the quiet,
and it rises, eventually, like the sun through fog.
Let people think what they will.
Let the unfolding take its time.
You are not here to rush understanding.
You are here to keep becoming.
~Kerri-Elizabeth~
As this week folds into stillness, the edge of tomorrow stirs with quiet anticipation. What has been hidden asks to be trusted, what has been blurred begins to clear. Week three rises like a shadowed path ahead, inviting the heart to lead where the eyes cannot yet follow.
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.
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.
On Love, Wholeness, and Belonging
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.
Where It All Flows Together
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.
Can you hear that? Dont trust me, instead listen for yourself.
The voice that created you — is still there. Still speaking. Not through screens, but through wind. Through intuition. Through breath.
SONSHINE FOR YOU 