Welcome to Honor Your Truth,  The “Is It True?” Series   Episode One Hundred Twelve  “To Each His Own”

Some people like ketchup, some people don’t. I am aware of that. If I use ketchup at all, I mix it with hot sauce. If there is no hot sauce available, I’m not going to use ketchup. It is way too sweet for me. While some may relate, others may think it strange or even go so far as to call it gross. It seems the more unique something is, the more extreme the reaction to it. Good and bad.

I get some absolutely heartless and mean comments on YouTube. I never talk about it because I don’t want to bring any additional energy to it. I don’t respond to them although at first I had to hold myself back. I wanted to say how much it hurts and then defend myself in some way. I do realize that someone who takes the time to write such things does not care about my feelings. My response would only prove that it worked… mission accomplished. I feel bad about myself.

Sure. Sticks and stones can break my bones but words can never hurt me. However, the truth is they do and I’m not going to beat myself up even further for letting them. I’m not going to say “I shouldn’t let it bother me” and so on. This will only further strengthen the argument within… something is wrong with me. “I should” have a thicker skin. Whenever I find myself saying “I should”, I stop and say “I choose” and fill in the blank.

I choose to continue to create despite the comments I read, but it isn’t always easy. However, there is no other choice if I want to survive. I am talking about this because I have been hearing this statement more than ever recently. “I wish I could…” The conversation is always about something a person wants to do but they are afraid. They talk in a way that implies I must have no fear, that it is somehow easier for me. They wait for the day that they won’t be afraid, when it will make “more sense”, when their “ducks are in a row.” They wait for the perfect time that never comes. Worse yet, they give up on the idea entirely.

I know because that’s what I did. I almost died. It was a slow and painful blackening of my spirit. Just before the light went out, I woke up. I realized that we only get one life and this was mine. I realized mine was passing me by and that I would not live forever… a fact I tried to ignore and hoped would go away. I had to face that fact and ask myself what I wanted to do while I was here.

I wasn’t doing it.

The answer came to me in an instant when I asked myself the question, “what is the one thing, having done it, will give me the most peace?”

So I write and I feel better…it’s that simple. And when I read a comment like, “idiot” or “no one would care if you died” or, “crazy b—h” or, “lock her up”, I delete it. Believe me it can get worse and does. In fact, the more the views, the more the negative comments. I kind of feel wimpy for deleting them but I don’t want my loved ones to have to read them. Other sites are different but I cringe when I see an email from YouTube “comment posted on…” I get a few nice ones but many more are from mean energy vampires.

You may ask, “well then why on earth do you keep posting?” I do it for the people who tell me I have helped them in some way…and because I have no other choice. I Honor My Truth!

Debra Hadraba

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Welcome to Honor Your Truth  The “Is It True?” Series   Episode One Hundred Eleven  “Out of Sight, Out of Mind”

Maybe the mind, but not the heart.

I haven’t been to the Oregon Coast in over a decade, but I can still feel the pounding of the waves against the rocks. My grandmother has been gone for much longer than that, yet I can still hear her laugh. I don’t think about these things every day, but I feel them always and forever in my heart. Each day holds treasures I will carry with me if I am present enough to notice them.

I can dream about the future but it cannot retain anything. When I find myself waiting for my “real life” to start, I wake myself up and realize it is here now. I can be impatient and until I am no longer sitting around waiting, I am uncomfortable and feel like something is missing. If I accept that I am right where I am meant to be, life becomes much more fun.

I enjoy my job…much more than I used to, now that I am present for it. I also know that this too shall pass. When I move on from here, I will miss it. The more present I am the more memories I will have stored up to reflect upon when I do.

Seasonal work can put you in a mindset of always waiting….waiting for something to end or for something to start. Talk to anyone who does it. However, I have learned a thing or two… things others may consider obvious, but for me, it took a while. I learned that my life has many facets, twists and turns, ups and downs and it is all part of who I am. I am always in motion and therefore I am never really stuck anywhere.

While managing a restaurant has never been a passion of mine, it still fills a large amount of my time. Less and less, but it is still one of the things that I do. I make a living yet it isn’t necessarily living. Real living is done by following my heart and my heart yearns. It is never at rest no matter how at peace I feel. It is always beating and I move now to the rhythm of it. If I don’t, I feel anxious… not unlike the feeling of wanting to dance but no one else is on the dance floor. I must grab someone or get up alone… standing there is not an option if I am to feel any peace and happiness.

So I dance while I am here. I work everyday, all day, but I laugh hard too. I am training a staff that comes from all over the world. One turns to me in a panic, “It’s in the chicken, it’s in the chicken.” I stare perplexed…ahhhh – translated “It’s in the kitchen, it’s in the kitchen” Or “Can you fish, you need to fish” –translated “Can you fix this, you need to fix this” And FYI, we have 1000 nights of dressing. For as impatient as I say I am, I have an immense amount of patience training a new staff in every season.

I choose where I go and what I do next. I am not stuck. I am constantly in motion. Knowing this… I am free. I am free to follow my heart wherever it leads. Once I realized I could leave, it made it much easier to stay. “Enjoy it while you can” takes on a deeper meaning. I work for new owners and I can feel the shift as it does… shift. I Honor My Truth!

Debra Hadraba

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Welcome to Honor Your Truth, The “Is It True?” Series Episode One Hundred Ten “Seeing is Believing”

I saw Santa’s boot. I was the leader of the pack. We were sneaking downstairs early Christmas morning. With a shhhhhhhhhh, I pushed the unruly brood back into the hall and whispered my good fortune. I quickly relayed my account of what I witnessed ‘round the corner. I caught just a glimpse of shiny patent leather as Santa shimmied up the chimney. When the five of us crept forward he was gone. Even I believed myself as I went into the details later. Maybe this sighting could restore my faith in magic; my family’s faith in good things. I wanted badly to continue this happy charade but it had started seeming fishy.

When I declared my vision, the excitement that ensued conveniently deflected my growing concern in terms of Santa. I had begun to doubt this pudgy bearded man could possibly get to everyone in one night and not end up a sooty mess. His beard was always white as snow although he came and went, not through the door, but through the fireplace. What if a house was without one, what would Santa do? There was a second fireplace in my parents’ bedroom that was filled with plastic ferns and statues of rabbits my mom painted in her ceramics phase. She would be so pissed if he missed and crashed into her arrangement.

We all know deer can’t fly, but wouldn’t it be cool. Our imagination was stretched in so many directions to encompass the depth of this tradition, but we did it. We kept it going for as long as luck would have it. I don’t know how or who it was that let me in on the truth. There was never a discussion, an explanation of the purpose for this delightful sham. It just seemed a part of growing up that would be found in textbooks about the developmental process of a child. It could be depicted on a graph as a sudden spike in realism. There is no such thing as Santa Clause… big spike and make-believe is over… how disheartening a time.

I didn’t know how I was going to incorporate the “boot sighting” into my history with any kind of dignity. Now we laugh about it… the time I “saw” the boot. I can’t live it down. It stands like a monument to my ability to lie. I now must put all my truths into the boot and make sure they don’t come running through the sole of it. I was merely trying to revive the light in our eyes and magnify the anticipation that was waning. All unconscious at the time but it is true. I so had wanted to hold onto the shred of wonder that was fleeting.

The following year it had all but disappeared, like it never had existed. Fairy tales were over. Dreams do not come true. A lot happened to confuse me. I wished I could live in stories. The kind you melt into like dreams… the half-in, half-out state of being where nothing bad can touch you.

I could easily escape into the “Secret Garden.” I read that book a thousand times. I would hide up in my bedroom and turn into the pages. The hidden door was always mine if I should need it. When I entered in the garden, I saw only with my heart. The eyes from deep within me.The truth is what I’m feeling. I see flowers. I see vines. I see a tree I can sit under and rest calmly in its shade. A cool breeze erases the sweat on my brow. I am safe there. I can breathe and smell the scent of freedom. And after I have rested, I skip through the sun in peace and at times I’m even laughing. I Honor My Truth!

Debra Hadraba

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Welcome to Honor Your Truth, The “Is It True?” Series Episode One Hundred Nine “If You Want to Gather Honey, Don’t Kick Over the Beehive”

I am here in Door County working. Many of you already know about the place that I work. It is a café/motel at the entrance to Peninsula State Park. The owners had been trying to sell it and finally they did. Over the winter months, it sold to a very nice young couple that I trained in to work last year! Not much has really changed. They are smart. I am still working ‘round the clock. We all are. It may sound weird, but it’s fun. We love what we do, even though we may complain. It’s just a little venting.

I am living above the café because the place I had been living for the last 8 years… the previous owner’s house, is no longer available. Great. I am up here in the “penthouse” with a family of five. They are AWESOME, but it is a family of 5 nonetheless. The father works in housekeeping and the mother is our baker. They have a new baby and 2 children under 7. The room I am staying in is full of bunk beds all set to house employees coming in from Eastern Europe. There are bags of sheets and blankets, 7 dressers and some lamps.

The bags also contain a pillow, but I bring mine to and fro. I am like that. It’s one of the things that helps me feel at home. When the kids start flocking in, I need to move so I am looking. It’s harder to find housing once the season has begun. I listen to the door slam and when it does I feel the floor shake. I’m right above the entrance to the café. I can smell bacon and it tempts me. It is the crossover meat after all, if you can call it meat. Bacon is the number one thing an ex-vegetarian will have eaten when first becoming carnivore. This was interesting to know.

A few years ago, how many I won’t mention, after turning forty, I started craving meat. I don’t know why, but it all began with bacon. I have served bacon to people now for close to 20 years, at the Day by Day and now at Julies… slinging Early Bird Specials like Frisbees every morning. 2 eggs, 2 bacon or sausage, hashbrowns and toast all for $5.75 if you order before 9, although it used to be $3.50. I don’t know how people can eat all that so early, unless they plan on going back to bed. One day I ate a slice of bacon, just one slice and it was over. I ate more and thus began my “Day of Meat.”

I had bacon, sausage, steak… then my boss at the time said, “Since you’re eating meat now, do you want to come with me to a barbecue?” I said sure and had a bratwurst and a burger. All I ate that day besides meat was ketchup. Prior to my “Day of Meat,” I had gotten sick from soup made with chicken stock, but that day I felt fine. In fact, as I incorporated a more realistic amount into my diet, I must say I felt better. It was strange. Since then I’m more careful about what kind and how it’s raised and so on… but I eat it… to each his own.

I feel like my friends left me here to die. I helped get everything all ready to go, but they went without me to the party. This never was my beehive though I worked as if it was. They are gone and I have nothing. I forgot it was a job. Although I am grateful to be working and doing something that I like, this has never been my dream. I started working in restaurants 30+ years ago. It just happened. I stay because it’s easy. I can do it in my sleep. It’s never been because of any inspiration… the kind that arises from your heart.

I put something in between me and my heart’s desire… something I must climb over, I must triumph, I must let go of, I must claim. Conscious or unconsciously I’ve waited. I tended to others business and put mine in the corner. I’ve been afraid I won’t succeed when I’ve proven that I can. Somehow the idea that its mine is what makes the difference because when it’s for other people I will work until I win. I don’t care what position you start me in; I will be on top within a year, but for what, for who and why.

So I am dividing up my energy and putting some towards my dream. It’s not easy, but I understand why. I was gathering my self-esteem by working myself to the bone until I’m broken. It was easier to be the one with all the answers and the one who always said yes. My own beehive has no honey, so I wonder if I’m ok. It is something that I’m learning… to feel ok within me regardless of what I “do” but more for who I “am.” I Honor My Truth!

Debra Hadraba

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Welcome to Honor Your Truth, The “Is It True?” Series   Episode One Hundred Eight “It’s Never Too Late to Be What You Might Have Been”

My sister and I registered for Archeology 101 in the Fall of 1981. We were both attending the College of Dupage, better known as COD. My Dad used to call it “the Dupage.” Back in those days it wasn’t the 4-year school it is now, it was a small 2-year junior college. It seemed to house those of us who either couldn’t or didn’t want to get into “regular” college. Many people went there for many different reasons, but for some of us, it was simply a way to get our parents off our backs until we could get a better grip on reality. The question, “what do you want to be when you grow up” was far too vast and overwhelming through a cloud of smoke and Miller beer.

I had dropped out of high school, but eventually got my GED as part of a treatment plan in a psych ward. I studied for it in between group therapy and whatever else. They let me out on a day pass from the hospital to take the test. Bizarre I know, but my father felt that if I went to college, all my “problems” would magically disappear. He said, “Just get her into college, that is all I’m asking” as he got up from the chair and shook Dr. Cindy’s hand. My Dad didn’t finish college and he always wished he had. I know he felt that if we did, we’d have it made-in-the-shade and then he wouldn’t have to worry. After graduating from Central Dupage Hospital, I went directly to “the Dupage.”

I took Typing 101. First and foremost, my Dad wanted us to type. “If you learn how to type, you will always have a job.” I remember feeling safe as I secured my future on a little blue typewriter. However, I had no patience for it. I still don’t, but I can type fast. My mind whirls too much to focus. I’m better off just getting started and learning through osmosis. I’m challenged with directions… things like learning a new cell phone can make me crazy. If someone shows me, I’m much better. These days I’d be considered a “visual learner.” When I was young, I was labeled “unable to apply herself,” a “slow learner,” a “bad student.”

My favorite TV show was “Passage to Adventure.” My parents gave me special permission to stay up late at night to watch it. It was on at 9:00pm on channel 11. Anything that was on channel 11 was considered almost school. I loved traveling all over the globe. I remember all the colors and fascinating worlds I could escape to.

I saw “Raiders of the Lost Ark” 7 times. Obviously, I was looking for adventure… hoping to transcend my simple life. I imagined myself as fearless, not afraid of getting dirty, searching for a treasure in some distant foreign land. What a relief it would be to go from one life threatening moment to the next… no time to worry, to be afraid or even think. I wanted to be able to drink shots of whiskey and pound the empty shot glass on the table. There would be multitudes of men under tables, drunk and asleep. I would slip away and find the riches. It seemed like a real good plan so I registered for the class.

So did swarms of others. Every class was full and with a wait-list. The only thing that filled up faster was the “animal” bus we rode to Florida. The “sleeper” buses and the “normal” buses filled up later. There was definitely a buzz around the campus it was the class to take. On the first day, the professor asked for a show of hands from those of us who saw the movie. We looked at each other and slithered up our hands. I don’t remember what he covered in that first hour at “the dig,” but my sister and I agreed we should never go back.

I registered for Electricity 101 because playing music was not a “viable” career. I could be a studio engineer but someone told me I’d be lucky to plug in amplifiers and wind up cords… that I could barely flip a switch. I loved drawing circuits on big paper, but that’s all that I remember.

I joked that I could be a dentist because I diagnosed cavities in my siblings, a joke my Dad has finally forgotten. It seemed to make him happy, so I kept up the charade.

I sold “Herbal Life” because my parents told my friend Dave to tell me to lose weight. His mom was a distributor so I drank gallons of Aloe Vera juice. I remember my mom saying well maybe you have found your “thing.”  My bedroom was full of products. I never wrote a single order.

I had no passion for the many things I tried to love. I was always told the things I did love were only hobbies and you did them in your spare time… time that never seemed to come.

I have been down many roads. I was always searching for a way around myself, a way around my fears. I have discovered that if a dream does not require me to face my deepest fears, then it is not big enough. I could say there is no easy way out, but actually there is. I have found it is far easier to follow my heart, be who I am, do what I love than to deny it. It is never too late because there is no destination, there is no ultimate achievement. It is about the now and what I am doing with it. I am all I was ever meant to be in this moment if I truly claim it. I Honor My Truth!

Debra Hadraba

Please, visit and join my BraveHeart Women Global Community at Honor Your Truth.

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Welcome to Honor Your Truth, The “Is It True?” Series Episode One Hundred Seven “If You’re Going through Hell, Keep Walking”

I’m not a golfer. My Dad is a golfer. My Mom is a golfer. My brother is a golfer. My sister is a golfer. I’m not. Try as I may, I have challenges hitting a round thing with a straight thing with any kind of finesse. While there may be contact, the round thing will go wildly off in a direction of its choosing. I cannot be held responsible. I always hit it too hard, if I don’t, then I miss it all together, no happy medium… ever. It is something I am working on. I’m starting small… miniature golf at the Red Putter with the staff. It seems harmless and easy enough.

That being said, I was pretty certain I was going to end up with the prize… a can of kraut juice. They call it the b—y prize, but I don’t like that saying. I should research its origin. I’m certain it’s ridiculous. I would have foregone the golf game entirely and gone ahead drank it so we could move on, but most like to play and play to win. I drank it so fast that nobody saw me. They missed the photo opp and were mad… sorry, I’m not stoppin’ and there’s gonna be no re-do. Get it while you can. I’m not wasting my time whining either. It’s just better that way.

Like getting in cold water at the pool, or better yet, like the thousands of crazy people who plunge in Lake Michigan January 1st for the annual Door County Polar Bear Swim. Maybe they’re hung over and can’t feel any worse or still drunk and just don’t care. Some people will wear a ton of clothing, which others claim is worse. There are tactics, there are theories. In my mind, though I’m not going to prove it, the best strategy is “get in and get out.” Period. Then proceed directly to the pancakes at “The Great Pancake Show”

When I was in Girl Scouts, we would go to camp in the summer. Part of the experience was bogging, which I would never do today, but it was a blast. We would trudge through the swampy, quick-sandy, oohy gooey mud containing God knows what until we would reach the lake. If you stop, you cannot feel the bottom but you can feel yourself sinking. The troop leader continually urges you on. Often someone panics, but she only shouts “keep moving.” No time for consolation.

Keep moving. One step… I breathe… another step… I breathe again. I move like a river. I cry. I get sad. I get mad. I don’t bury my heart underneath a boulder of pain I have yet to feel. It will only get heavier with the years. I am fluid, not stuck. You can’t stop things from changing if you try. This too shall always pass. It is a promise that life keeps. I don’t fight it… for if it is a lesson, it will only come around again later if I do. It seems there is always something that I learn.

A dear friend of mine passed away recently. He died of cancer. He knew his time was near, yet he talked of all the leather carvings he was working on and how he was changing around his studio. He lived much longer than they said he would, much longer. He remained alive in every moment. I was in Door County working when he died. Before I left, he gave me a necklace that was a little beaded pouch. I can feel the weight of it against my chest when I wear it. When he got real sick and was dying, it fell from the place I had it hanging as if to let me know.

Life waits for no one. It keeps going. I want to roll along with it, not wait for mine to happen as it does. It will move on without me. It’s my choice to say, “I’m in!” I am free to choose, if only I will claim it… with a step and a breath and a step and a breath. This is how I do it. I Honor My Truth!

Debra Hadraba

Please, visit and join my BraveHeart Women Global Community at Honor Your Truth.

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Welcome to Honor Your Truth, The “Is It True? Series” Episode One Hundred Six “It’s a small world after all”

I took everything out of the fridge, including the shelves and the bins. I wanted to see if I could fit inside. I seem to have a habit of doing performances that involve smushing myself into a small place and finding a way to break free. I wasn’t sure if I would be able to get my whole body in there and shut the door. Getting out would prove to be another quandary if I were in fact able to accomplish the task of getting in. One should always plan an escape route on the front end in situations like this. Just as I was about to close the door on myself, it occurred to me. What if I can’t get out?

I could have suffocated due to a lack of oxygen that day, but I didn’t. Lucky me because it surely wasn’t smarts that saved me. No matter how loud I yelled or how much I pounded no neighbor would have ever heard me. Fortunately, my sanity did return. I remembered accounts I’d heard of wandering souls, just like me, trapped inside fridges in basements and alleys. I took a breath and came to… holy cats! What was I thinking? As the memory surfaces, I find it harder to breathe. Claustrophobia has never been my thing.

I could never have rocked it from side to side, in hopes of tipping it over, so maybe the latch would bust open. My fridge was wedged into a box of its own. It was nearly impossible to move it, even from the outside. There was no room for me to scoot back and brace myself to kick the door open. I could wriggle something sharp between the magnetic seal causing it to loosen, that is if I could find something sharp. I could turn the temperature down if I was too cold, but eventual I’d shiver. The predicament would have left me no choice but to chill and to chow.

Unfortunately, in order to make room, I took out all of the food… the leftover dinner, the cheese and the beer. Somehow I can’t see myself enjoying a meal entirely composed of condiments and such. My last supper would consist of Sriracha, Woebers’ horseradish sauce, sweet gherkins, Annies Goddess dressing, Door County Real Maple syrup, strawberry jalapeño jelly, pickled asparagus, Kua Khaub Poob Qab Heev(curry paste), Tuong Ot Sate An Pho(ground chili garlic oil) and a variety of olives. What a feast!

I’ve put myself in box, in a bag, in a plastic tub, in a garbage can (I put my little sister in one too for a show) and in a wardrobe box for moving clothes. I continue to put myself in situations to get out of… to break free from prisons, real or imagined. I always find a way out, but still, I am afraid. I was forced to transcend my fear of the fridge while at work. I am in and out of the walk-in all day long. The walk-in freezer is another story.

I am fearful of the fluke, there are flukes of many kinds. Getting locked in a freezer is one I wish to avoid. I will not. I repeat, I WILL NOT go into the walk-in freezer without a chair wedged in the door. I know where everything is and I grab it real quick. I hold my breath as I go. I make sure no one is lurking anywhere in the vicinity that might want to play a joke. I do my best to sneak in and out in secret. It’s best for me if no one knows. I control the situation with my little friend the chair… or if it’s gone, I use the mop bucket.

I want to fit in somewhere. I want to be accepted. It’s not so good to mold yourself, to mask yourself, to hide. No one really asks me to. It is me who thinks I must in order to get what I think I want or to hold onto what I think I need. But I’ve come to discover that the “real me” rarely ever wanted what I fought so hard to keep but lost. It is only my small ego that has been willing to pay the price of living a lie and of not honoring my truth. I think I can control what happens by being who I think I should, but it never works that way. The only way to find what I am looking for is to be truly who I am. Only then will I find what I yearn for deep inside. I no longer need to squish myself to fit into a box that is often of my making. I Honor My Truth!

Debra Hadraba

Please, visit and join my BraveHeart Women Global Community at Honor Your Truth.

I have two Facebook Fan Pages: One is for Braveheart Women and the other is for my own Honor Your Truth Music Company.

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Welcome to Honor Your Truth, The “Is it True? Series” Episode One Hundred Five ” Careful What You Pray For”

Every day we said Grace before dinner. We never said a thing preceding breakfast, it was all we could do to get up, get in our uniforms and get to the bus stop. But, prior to Mom’s Pot Roast, there was always prayer. No one said anything special. We said the same prayer every day. We said it quiet, quick and underneath our breath. Never taking the time out for reflection on what we were grateful for or a moment of silence for those who may be suffering. No, saying grace was just something we did like washing our hands or setting the table. It was not a very conscious process.

Even though I probably said that prayer a half-a-zillion times, I never really learned the words. Turns out, no one else really knew them either. So basically, we mumbled. I don’t remember being taught Grace, but I had the basic framework… and then just kept my head down. I thought the first line went as follows, “Bless Us Oh Lord, for these… I guess (thy gifts).” From my perspective, it was a request to bless this food because, like it or not, I guess we’re eating it, even if it is peas.

I hated peas, but we had to eat them. I never learned to like them as was promised. I’m all grown up and I still can’t stand them. My brother didn’t like them either.

He turned to me and said, “I don’t like peas,” and threw up on the table.

This image has assisted me in my continued disdain for the little green round balls of mush. I don’t like Lima beans either. But above all, I don’t like okra. It is slimy and it’s very gross. My grandpa made me eat it when I was 21. I thought certainly by then that I was old enough to decide what to eat and what not to, but no.

The rest of the prayer I had fairly down, except for “thy bounty.” I said “my bounty” partially because I had no idea what a “bounty” was. If I had known, I might have figured out it wasn’t mine. I learned many, many prayers either through repetition, memorization or just osmosis. I never really learned their meaning in a way I could connect to. They meant nothing much to me. I just knew I had to keep from getting into trouble. If I didn’t know the words, I better move my mouth.

There wasn’t much in the way of explanation. The standard mode of operation was, “Do as I say, not as I do.” While I might not have grasped the philosophical depth of a rote prayer, I doubt that I would have cared much anyway at the time. However, I don’t really know. I can’t remember.

Now, I look for possible explanations for my challenges in hopes of better understanding them. Nonetheless, all the reasons in the world are nothing more that… reasons – only possible ones at that. Negative thinking for example, stems from clear and from tangled roots. While it may be helpful to pinpoint some of them, the greatest power lies in the present, not in the past.

What do I do with the truth today? I don’t know why we tell our children the Easter Bunny will come with colored eggs and chocolate. I don’t know why we tell them Santa will come down the chimney with a bulging sack of toys. I don’t remember being told it wasn’t true. It is amazing that I would ever believe anything anyone said again after finding out so much of these things were myth. I know I felt ashamed having told my sisters that I saw Santa’s boot. I said I saw it as he was going up the chimney, obviously a lie.

The secret was so fun and we were lucky to be born into a family that could celebrate the holidays the way that other people did. I realize it is an opportunity to teach gratitude, yet still so hard I’m sure. I could have learned some gratitude at grace time, but I didn’t. While this may be interesting, it serves no purpose to blame anything or anyone. It has no power over NOW. Right NOW I can feel grateful for my family and that I am here with them for Easter, all other details aside, I Honor My Truth!

Debra Hadraba

Please, visit and join my BraveHeart Women Global Community at Honor Your Truth.

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Welcome to Honor Your Truth, The “Is It True? Series” Episode One Hundred Four “The early bird gets the worm”

There doesn’t appear to be a shortage of worms. If I go out for a walk after a good rain, the sidewalk is covered with the slimy slithery things. The ground gets flooded with water so they come out, otherwise they will drown. As I am walking along, I keep an eye on my feet because I don’t want to smush any. That would be really icky. We used to catch lightning bugs and smash them with our shoes to see the glow they’d leave behind on the pavement. I still feel bad about those poor innocent fireflies.

Worms freak me out. Not as much as Daddy Long Legs or centipedes do, but enough to give me the heebie-jeebies. Daddy Long Legs look like a mole that sprouted legs. They make no sense at all. Centipedes, the ones with a gazillion legs and probably just as many eyes, make my skin crawl just thinking about them. The darn things sprout up out of drains, tubs, and basement walls and they are as quick as a shape shifter. Worms fall somewhere after spiders and before bunnies in terms of their scariness. They don’t have a brain or eyes, they don’t have a backbone or limbs, and some don’t have muscles. What the heck are they? They are described as a tube. Tube of what? No forget it, I don’t want to know.

I do garden, so I have picked them up and flung them across the yard before. It is the best I can do. I much prefer an earthworm to a grub. Grubs are definitely grosser. The earthworms are soft and seem so fragile. They appear vulnerable to so many elements, but I could be wrong. Maybe they’re saying, “Lady you don’t scare me, squish me in two or even get your hoe, I am invincible” Somehow they are smart enough to be able to grow new worm segments if one gets chopped off. This is certainly more than we can do. Maybe the brain isn’t that important after all. They do not think a new body into being, they just grow one.

While the early birds are up and about, ready to embrace the day, the not-so early birds are just chillin’ in the nest. They are in no rush which very well may be the better sense of timing. You never know. If it just so happens to start raining, they are warm and dry. When the rain begins to fall, it lulls them peacefully back into dreamland. They sleep soundly while listening to the gentle beat of the raindrops on the leaves. When the sun comes out again, the well rested birds easily gather their feast from the sidewalk and go on with their day, tummy full and energized. The birds that were out there at the crack of dawn are exhausted from securing food and flying around in the rain all day. I don’t know. I don’t really know how birds work.

The idea that takin’ it easy, as opposed to racing around in a panic, might produce results sounds real good to me, especially since I can’t seem to get out of bed. I have been allowing myself to sleep however long I want to sleep… maybe I am tired. It‘s been a rough couple of years. I made changes. I began taking steps forward with courage. I was brave. I chose to follow my heart. One would think I would feel super happy about it and I am, don’t get me wrong, but I feel exhausted and even depressed. I believe I am in a period of transition and it doesn’t mean to turn around. It is the equal and opposite reaction to a time of intensely heightened energy. I remember the adrenalin. I could physically feel the cortisol coursing through my veins much more than the rather temporary way elation and excitement causes it to do. It was never-ending.

We know that happiness causes “good, good, good vibrations,” but “negative” experiences vibrate too. Their vibration can actually be quite high and wild. This energy is extremely distracting which is why it is difficult to focus on anything else, even though it would be a good idea to. It’s like a magnet, pulling us away from what is real, the true present and drawing us into fear- past and future. Breaking free from that intensity is like a big ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh… but it can leave an emptiness where the static used to be. We face the reality of all that has happened. When in the thick of things, its harder to see and there’s no time or space to feel. Maybe this is why people stay in painful situations, but I know it’s more complex than that… much more. I do believe it’s part of it. What now? What’s next?

Personally, I do not want to create some drama, distraction, only to wind up here again. I am allowing myself the time to settle. We shift and adjust… to be present with who we truly are beyond the trauma and its ensuing chaos and chatter. It requires patience and trust, faith and hope that there is more. More will be revealed in time. Things unfold to make some sense. We weren’t meant to exist solely within a struggle, or in bliss for that matter. The pain of staying the same is much greater than any fear of changing. AND… and a BIG AND… despite the fact it is uncomfortable, we can do it anyway. There is no going back. We must be who we came here to be and do what we came here to do.

In our own way and our own time… we listen and truly follow our hearts. There are no guidelines. This would be a contradiction. There is no right or wrong way to be ourselves, there are no mistakes, only necessary lessons. This is the message I am receiving. I am slowly allowing myself to accept the good. It’s new. I’m used to having the wind in my hair with nothing to lose and nowhere to go but up. I accept the freedom and responsibility of choice. I am free to make my own. I Honor My Truth!

Debra Hadraba

Please, visit and join my BraveHeart Women Global Community at Honor Your Truth.

I have two Facebook Fan Pages: One is for Braveheart Women and the other is for my own Honor Your Truth Music Company.

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Welcome to Honor Your Truth, The “Is It True? Series” Episode One Hundred Three “Actions Speak Louder Than Words”

Many children go to school hungry. I did, but it wasn’t for lack of food. Nope, there was always plenty of food on our table. My parents had some tough times, but there was always enough to eat. My Dad would tell my Mom she had better “watch it,” but we never knew the difference.

She never failed to make her trips to the Jewel. When the list on the frig would get more than a few items long, she was off and running. I LOVED a good Pop Tart, especially the cinnamon kind with the brown sugar icing – but not enough to drag myself out of bed for it. I could always get one later. I’d rather sleep. I wouldn’t get out of bed unless threatened by a wooden spoon.

This slacker-type mentality never left me enough time for anything other than rummaging around for all the pieces to my uniform and flying out to the bus stop. I was more concerned with looking “presentable,” so as not to get a punch on my “punch card” and wind up in detention. We were checked individually as we entered church every morning. We would bow our heads to have our hair checked, put our hands out to have our nails checked and then reveal our teeth.

I know it sounds surreal, but it’s true. We were like monkey children. If you made it to the 6th grade, you could wear whatever kind of socks you wanted and I did. I didn’t want to be a monkey girl. Every night I’d plan ahead. I didn’t care if they matched the uniform or not. It was plaid, but I paid it no attention.

Apart from my father who wakes up playing a ukulele, we’re not breakfast people. Don’t talk to a Hadraba about anything of any importance in the morning. Until sufficient coffee has been applied to my brain, it’s not wise to approach me. I’m crabby and rash. If you want me to say yes, pick another time.

In fact, it’s best if you deal with the coffee entirely. I can hardly be trusted with it. I spill the beans, break the decanter, burn myself with hot water, boil the water until the kettle’s bone dry or knock the whole kit-and-caboodle over, resulting in a total mess… with tears. I’ve tried a variety of coffee making methods; automatic, percolator, press pot, cone filter… all with similar consequences.

My Mom is the same way in the morning. She was not big on words, but she was big on food and it was always made with love. This would include the school lunch. At St. Michael’s, all we got was milk. We each brought our lunch from home in a bag. It was pre- groovy, trendy, lunch box time, but the lunches my mom made, ruled.

They may have been in a brown bag, but they were special… beginning with how she would put our names on the bags like we were rock stars with some kind of flower or other cool design. No one else had that. She would often put a note… a joke or a quote… or some other kind of surprise in the bag. We were the first ones to have the strawberry bag. It was a variation on the brown paper bag – a white bag with strawberries. She would put our name in one of the strawberries.

After school, we’d totally pig out. Quite often, eating the “breakfast” that we missed that morning… Pop Tarts, cereal, toast, whatever. We went through a lot of bread in my family. We could easily go through a loaf of bread in an afternoon. There was never a problem that a good piece of toast couldn’t solve… Just have a piece and think about it.

You can still find the toaster, the bread, the butter dish and the knife all armed on the counter at Mom’s house 24-7. If you walk into the kitchen, it’s pretty much a guarantee someone’s gonna ask you if you want a piece of toast, so get ready. And just an FYI, if you have one, the follow up question is, “another slab?”

My Mom would save the “heels” in an empty bag. When the bag was full, she would cut them into little bread squares and douse them with huge globs of sugar and butter and bake them in the oven until they were crispy… white bread, white sugar and butter. They would be cooling on trays when we tore through the kitchen, just off the bus. You could smell it when you hit the door. We loved those crunchy sugar squares.

Whatever she made was always made with love. It spoke the love she couldn’t say. I’m not going to put words in her mouth, nor into her food, but if there were letters in her food like alphabet soup… it would spell out L-O-V-E.

Square food apparently feeds the masses well. In high school, we got “milk” money. It wasn’t enough to sustain oneself solely from the machines, but we’d try. I lived on Dr. Pepper and a Milky Way for about 3 years until I dropped out. The lunchroom fare was provided… and yes, it was square.

On any given day, one would grab a tray and get in line and I don’t care what it was, it was square… pizza, hamburgers, meatloaf. Things were mushed together, casseroles or whatever would be conveniently plopped in a square paper container in a square clump. It was nasty, but it was food. I guess I was spoiled. Everyone would get excited about the pizza, but I never ate it.

I may not have heard words for love, but then I never heard false promises either. I wouldn’t know what to do with those words if I heard them. I got used to it. I learned to read the signs… when to be happy and when to hide. Dad was on a business trip to Mexico and brought home dolls for each of us. We woke up and they were on the foot of our bed. I can picture him trying to decide who should have what color and laying them there before he left for work. He got the colors right. It still makes me cry. I want those days back.

We used to go for ice cream in the station wagon. We all loved pralines ‘n cream and daiquiri ice. Mom made us matching outfits so we wouldn’t get lost on any escapades. We would go to dinner at “The Hamlet” and order kiddie cocktails. The waitress would tell us we were good. My Mom and Dad would smile as if it were so easy, although I know it wasn’t.

How they did it and how they’re still together is miraculously charming. I’d like to do it all again… the good times and the “bad,” the happy times and the “sad.” Although the memories have few words, I still hold their meaning in my heart. I Honor My Truth!

Debra Hadraba

Please, visit and join my BraveHeart Women Global Community at Honor Your Truth.

I have two Facebook Fan Pages: One is for Braveheart Women and the other is for my own Honor Your Truth Music Company.

Get the latest insights and instant alerts to fresh posts by following me on Twitter: @honoryourtruth.

My official Website can be found at: HonorYourTruth.com.

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