What I Know For Sure Read online

  Once I finally convinced her to come home with me, we stayed up the whole night talking. And with the exception of a few times during vacations spent out of the country, Gayle and I have talked every day since.

  We laugh a lot, mostly about ourselves. She has helped me through demotions, near-firings, sexual harassment, and the twisted and messed-up relationships of my twenties, when I couldn’t tell the difference between myself and a doormat. Night after night, Gayle listened to the latest woeful tale of how I’d been stood up, lied to, done wrong. She’d always ask for details (we call it “book, chapter, and verse”), then seem as engaged as if it were happening to her. She never judged me. Yet when I’d let some man use me, she’d often say, “He’s just chipping away at your spirit. One day I hope he chips deep enough for you to see who you really are—someone who deserves to be happy.”

  In all my triumphs—in every good and great thing that has ever happened to me—Gayle has been my boldest cheerleader. (Of course, no matter how much money I make, she still worries that I’m spending too much. “Remember M.C. Hammer,” she chides, as though I’m one purchase away from following in the footsteps of the rapper who went bankrupt.) And in all our years together, I have never sensed even a split second of jealousy from her. She loves her life, she loves her family, she loves discount shopping (enough to schlep across town for a sale on Tide).

  Only once has she admitted to wanting to trade places with me: the night I sang onstage with Tina Turner. She, who cannot carry a tune in a church pew, fantasizes about being a singer.

  Gayle is the nicest person I know—genuinely interested in everybody’s story. She’s the kind of person who will ask a cabdriver in New York City if he has any kids. “What are their names?” she’ll say. When I’m down, she shares my pain; when I’m up, you can believe she’s somewhere in the background, cheering louder and smiling broader than anyone else. Sometimes I feel like Gayle is the better part of myself—the part that says “No matter what, I’m here for you.” What I know for sure is that Gayle is a friend I can count on. She has taught me the joy of having, and being, a true friend.

  Getting three new pups at the same time wasn’t the smartest decision I ever made. I acted on impulse, charmed by their cute little faces, intoxicated by that sweet puppy breath and the underbite on Puppy No. 3 (Layla).

  Then I spent weeks getting up at all hours of the night with them. I picked up pounds of poop and spent hours puppy training so they would have good manners.

  It was a lot of work. I was sleep deprived—and constantly frazzled from trying to keep three at a time from destroying all my worldly goods. Whoa, did I gain a big new respect for mothers of real babies!

  All this puppy love was starting to get on my nerves, so I had to make a paradigm shift. One day while walking them, I stood and watched them frolic—and I do mean frolic: rolling, tumbling, chasing, laughing (yes, dogs laugh), and leaping like bunnies. They were having so much fun, and seeing them that way made my whole body sigh, relax, and smile. New life discovering a field of grass for the first time: What a wonder!

  We all get the opportunity to feel wonder every day, but we’ve been lulled into numbness. Have you ever driven home from work, opened your front door, and asked yourself how you got there?

  I know for sure that I don’t want to live a shut-down life—desensitized to feeling and seeing. I want every day to be a fresh start on expanding what is possible. On experiencing joy on every level.

  I love building a fire in the fireplace. What a sense of accomplishment it is to stack the wood exactly right (pyramid-style) and have the flames shoot up without using a starter log! I don’t know why that’s so rewarding for me, but it is—as a young girl, I dreamed of being a Girl Scout but could never afford the uniform.

  A fire is even better when it’s pouring rain outside. And it’s absolutely the best when I’ve finished my work, checked my e-mail, unplugged, and am ready to read.

  Everything I do all day, I do in preparation for my reading time. Give me a great novel or memoir, some tea, and a cozy spot to curl up in, and I’m in heaven. I love to live in another person’s thoughts; I marvel at the bonds I feel with people who come alive on the page, regardless of how different their circumstances might be from mine. I not only feel I know these people, but I also recognize more of myself. Insight, information, knowledge, inspiration, power: All that and more can come through a good book.

  I can’t imagine where I’d be or who I’d be without the essential tool of reading. I for sure wouldn’t have gotten my first job in radio at the age of 16. I was touring the radio station WVOL in Nashville when the DJ asked, “Do you want to hear how your voice sounds on tape?” and handed me a piece of news copy and a microphone. “You oughta hear this girl!” he exclaimed to his boss. There began my broadcasting career—shortly thereafter, the station hired me to read the news on the air. After years of reciting poetry to whomever would listen and reading everything I could get my hands on, someone was going to pay me to do what I loved—read out loud.

  Books, for me, used to be a way to escape. I now consider reading a good book a sacred indulgence, a chance to be any place I choose. It is my absolute favorite way to spend time. What I know for sure is that reading opens you up. It exposes you and gives you access to anything your mind can hold. What I love most about reading: It gives you the ability to reach higher ground. And keep climbing.

  My primary and most essential goal in life is to remain connected to the world of spirit. Everything else will take care of itself—this I know for sure. And my number-one spiritual practice is trying to live in the present moment … to resist projecting into the future, or lamenting past mistakes … to feel the real power of now. That, my friends, is the secret to a joyful life.

  If everybody remembered to live this way (as children do when they first arrive on this planet; it’s what we hardened souls call innocence), we’d transform the world. Playing, laughing, feeling joy.

  My favorite Bible verse, which I have loved since I was an eight-year-old girl, is Psalms 37:4. “Delight thyself in the Lord, and He will give you the desires of your heart.” This has been my mantra through all my experience. Delight in the Lord—in goodness, kindness, compassion, love—and see what happens.

  I dare you.

  Resilience

  “Barn’s burnt down / Now I can see the moon.”

  —Mizuta Masahide

  (seventeenth-century Japanese poet)

  No matter who we are or where we come from, we all have our own journey. Mine began one April afternoon in 1953, in rural Mississippi, where I was conceived out of wedlock by Vernon Winfrey and Vernita Lee. Their onetime union that day, not at all a romance, brought about an unwanted pregnancy, and my mother concealed her condition until the day I was born—so no one was prepared for my arrival. There were no baby showers, none of the anticipation or delight that I see in the faces of expectant friends who rub their swollen stomachs with reverence. My birth was marked by regret, hiding, and shame.

  When the author and counselor John Bradshaw, who pioneered the concept of the inner child, appeared on The Oprah Winfrey Show in 1991, he took my audience and me through a profound exercise. He asked us to close our eyes and go back to the home we grew up in, to visualize the house itself. Come closer, he said. Look inside the window and find yourself inside. What do you see? And more important, what do you feel? For me it was an overwhelmingly sad yet powerful exercise. What I felt at almost every stage of my development was lonely. Not alone—because there were always people around—but I knew that my soul’s survival depended on me. I felt I would have to fend for myself.

  As a girl, I used to love when company would come to my grandmother’s house after church. When they left, I dreaded being alone with my grandfather, who was senile, and my grandmother, who was often exhausted and impatient. I was the only child for miles around, so I had to learn to be with myself. I invented new ways to be solitary. I had books and homemade dolls and
chores and farm animals I often named and talked to. I’m sure that all that time alone was critical in defining the adult I would become.

  Looking back through John Bradshaw’s window into my life, I was sad that the people closest to me didn’t seem to realize what a sweet-spirited little girl I was. But I also felt strengthened, seeing it for myself.

  Like me, you might have experienced things that caused you to deem yourself unworthy. I know for sure that healing the wounds of the past is one of the biggest and most worthwhile challenges of life. It’s important to know when and how you were programmed, so you can change the program. And doing so is your responsibility, no one else’s. There is one irrefutable law of the universe: We are each responsible for our own life.

  If you’re holding anyone else accountable for your happiness, you’re wasting your time. You must be fearless enough to give yourself the love you didn’t receive. Begin noticing how every day brings a new opportunity for your growth. How buried disagreements with your mother show up in arguments with your spouse. How unconscious feelings of unworthiness appear in everything you do (and don’t do). All these experiences are your life’s way of urging you to leave the past behind and make yourself whole. Pay attention. Every choice gives you a chance to pave your own road. Keep moving. Full speed ahead.

  Every challenge we take on has the power to knock us to our knees. But what’s even more disconcerting than the jolt itself is our fear that we won’t withstand it. When we feel the ground beneath us shifting, we panic. We forget everything we know and allow fear to freeze us. Just the thought of what could happen is enough to throw us off balance.

  What I know for sure is that the only way to endure the quake is to adjust your stance. You can’t avoid the daily tremors. They come with being alive. But I believe these experiences are gifts that force us to step to the right or left in search of a new center of gravity. Don’t fight them. Let them help you adjust your footing.

  Balance lives in the present. When you feel the earth moving, bring yourself back to the now. You’ll handle whatever shake-up the next moment brings when you get to it. In this moment, you’re still breathing. In this moment, you’ve survived. In this moment, you’re finding a way to step onto higher ground.

  For years, I had a secret that almost no one knew. Even Gayle, who knew everything about me, wasn’t aware of it until several years into our friendship. The same is true for Stedman. I hid it until I felt safe enough to share: the years I was sexually abused, from age 10 to 14, my resulting promiscuity, and finally, at 14, my becoming pregnant. I was so ashamed, I hid the pregnancy until my doctor noticed my swollen ankles and belly. I gave birth in 1968; the baby died in the hospital weeks later.

  I went back to school and told no one. My fear was that if I were found out, I would be expelled. So I carried the secret into my future, always afraid that if anyone discovered what had happened, they, too, would expel me from their lives. Even when I found the courage to publicly reveal the abuse, I still carried the shame and kept the pregnancy a secret.

  When a family member who has since died leaked this story to the tabloids, everything changed. I felt devastated. Wounded. Betrayed. How could this person do this to me? I cried and cried. I remember Stedman coming into the bedroom that Sunday afternoon, the room darkened from the closed curtains. Standing before me, looking like he, too, had shed tears, he said, “I’m so sorry. You don’t deserve this.”

  When I dragged myself from bed for work that Monday morning after the news broke, I felt beaten and scared. I imagined that every person on the street was going to point their finger at me and scream, “Pregnant at fourteen, you wicked girl … expelled!” No one said a word, though—not strangers, not the people I knew. I was shocked. Nobody treated me differently. For decades, I had been expecting a reaction that never came.

  I’ve since been betrayed by others—but although it’s a kick in the gut, it doesn’t make me cry or take to my bed anymore. I try never to forget the words of Isaiah 54:17: “No weapon formed against you shall prosper.” Every difficult moment has its silver lining, and I soon realized that having the secret out was liberating. Not until then could I begin repairing the damage done to my spirit as a young girl. I realized that all those years, I had been blaming myself. What I learned for sure was that holding the shame was the greatest burden of all. When you have nothing to be ashamed of, when you know who you are and what you stand for, you stand in wisdom.

  Whenever I’m faced with a difficult decision, I ask myself: What would I do if I weren’t afraid of making a mistake, feeling rejected, looking foolish, or being alone? I know for sure that when you remove the fear, the answer you’ve been searching for comes into focus. And as you walk into what you fear, you should know for sure that your deepest struggle can, if you’re willing and open, produce your greatest strength.

  Have you ever come across an old picture and been instantly transported back in time—to the point where you can feel the clothes you were wearing?

  There’s a photo of me at 21 years old that gives me exactly this feeling. The skirt I was wearing cost $40—more than I’d ever spent on a single item of clothing—but I was willing to do it for my first major celebrity interview: Jesse Jackson. He was speaking at a local high school, telling students, “Down with dope, up with hope!”—and I had been assigned to cover him. My news director didn’t think the event was worth our time, but I’d insisted (okay, pleaded), assuring him I could come back with a piece worthy of the six o’clock news. And I did.

  I had a fondness for telling other people’s stories, extracting the truth of their experience and distilling it into wisdom that could inform, inspire, or benefit someone else. Still, I was uncertain about what to say to Jackson, or how to say it.

  If I knew then what I know now, I would never have wasted even a single minute doubting my path.

  Because when it comes to matters of the heart, emotion, connection, and speaking in front of large audiences, I thrive. Something happens between me and whomever I’m engaged with: I can feel them and sense that they are vibing right back with me. That’s because I know for sure that anything I’ve been through or felt, they have, too, and probably more so. The great connection I feel with everyone I speak to stems from being aware that we are all on the same path, all of us wanting the same things: love, joy, and acknowledgment.

  No matter what challenge you may be facing, you must remember that while the canvas of your life is painted with daily experiences, behaviors, reactions, and emotions, you’re the one controlling the brush. If I had known this at 21, I could have saved myself a lot of heartache and self-doubt. It would have been a revelation to understand that we are all the artists of our own lives—and that we can use as many colors and brushstrokes as we like.

  I have always prided myself on my independence, my integrity, my support of others. But there’s a thin line between pride and ego. And I’ve learned that sometimes you have to step out of your ego to recognize the truth. So when life gets difficult, I’ve found that the best thing to do is ask myself a simple question: What is this here to teach me?

  I remember back in 1988, when I first took ownership of the Oprah show, I had to buy a studio and hire all the producers. There were a million things I didn’t know. I made a lot of mistakes during those early years (including one so big we had a priest come in to cleanse the studio afterward). Fortunately for me, I wasn’t so well-known back then. I could learn a lesson, and grow from it, privately.

  Today, part of the price of success is that my lessons are public. If I stumble, people know, and some days the pressure of that reality makes me want to scream. But one thing I know for sure: I am not a screamer. I can count on one hand the number of times in my life—four—when I’ve actually raised my voice at someone.

  So when I feel overwhelmed, I usually go to a quiet place. A bathroom stall works wonders. I close my eyes, turn inward, and breathe until I can sense the still, small space inside me that is the same as
the stillness in you, and in the trees, and in all things. I breathe until I can feel this space expand and fill me. And I always end up doing the exact opposite of screaming: I smile at the wonder of it all.

  I mean, how amazing is it that I, a woman born and raised in Mississippi when it was an apartheid state, who grew up having to go into town even to watch TV—we certainly didn’t have one at home—am where I am today?

  Wherever you are in your journey, I hope you, too, will keep encountering challenges. It is a blessing to be able to survive them, to be able to keep putting one foot in front of the other—to be in a position to make the climb up life’s mountain, knowing that the summit still lies ahead. And every experience is a valuable teacher.

  We all have stand-down moments that require us to stand up, in the center of ourselves, and know who we are. When your marriage falls apart, when a job that defined you is gone, when the people you’d counted on turn their backs on you, there’s no question that changing the way you think about your situation is the key to improving it. I know for sure that all of our hurdles have meaning. And being open to learning from those challenges is the difference between succeeding and getting stuck.

  As I get older, I can feel my body making a shift. No matter how I try, I can’t run as fast as I could before, but to tell you the truth, I don’t really care to. Everything’s shifting: breasts and knees and attitude. I marvel at my own sense of calm now. Events that used to leave me reeling, with my head in a bag of chips, no longer even faze me. Even better, I’m privy to insights about myself that only a lifetime of learning can bring.