Lady Dra's Blog

Dear 2025, I am writing to mark the end of you— not with fireworks, not even with relief, but with honesty. You came heavy. You came loud. You came asking more than I had planned to give. This was the year my life tilted without warning. The year appointments replaced routines. The year my body asked for attention I could no longer postpone. The year I learned that surviving can look like canceling plans, choosing rest, saying no without explaining myself. You taught me how much I carry— and how much of it I have been carrying alone. There were days I felt unrecognizable to myself. Days when exhaustion lived in my bones and hope felt like a language I once spoke fluently but couldn’t quite reach. I smiled when it was expected. I endured when it was required. I kept going because stopping felt scarier than continuing. But here is what you didn’t take from me: My ability to notice light, even when it was small. The twinkle of a tree. The steady flame of a menorah. Quiet moments where not...

 I will be taking a break from my blog due to my mental health. I need to step back.  I need to step back. if you want to know more, I have a CaringBridge account under Suzanne's Thoughts. you can comment

There is a particular kind of fear that doesn’t announce itself loudly. It settles in quietly, like a hand on your shoulder when you’re not expecting it. It’s the fear of being seen—and the equally heavy fear of being known. Lately, many Jews and immigrants are carrying that fear every day. It shows up in small calculations we make without realizing it: Do I wear this necklace today? Do I say where my family is from? Do I correct the assumption, or let it slide? It’s the pause before answering an innocent question, the instinct to soften an accent, the choice to hide something meaningful because safety feels uncertain. For Jews especially, there is an unsettling familiarity to this moment. History lives close to the surface of our memory. We are taught names, dates, and warnings not to frighten us—but to prepare us. And yet, here we are, recognizing the early signs we were promised we’d never have to see again: rising antisemitism, normalized hate, threats dismissed as isolated incide...

Every sunrise feels like another step deeper into the fire we call Trump. His words still echo across the country, and people are listening. The more they listen, the more it feels like we are losing—losing trust, losing unity, losing the fragile balance that holds us together. I worry. I worry that the divisions we see every day could ignite into something larger, something darker. Civil war is a phrase that once belonged to history books, yet now it lingers in conversations, headlines, and fears. But here’s the truth: fear alone cannot guide us. If we let it consume us, we surrender to the fire. What we need is resilience—community, compassion, and the courage to speak out. This blog is my attempt to resist despair. To name the fire, but also to remind myself and others that we are not powerless. We can choose to build bridges instead of walls, to listen instead of shout, to nurture instead of destroy. Another day, another week. The fire burns, but so does hope.