What I Know For Sure (3 page)

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.

I’ve said that I always knew I was exactly where I was meant to be when I was standing on the stage talking to viewers around the world. That was truly my sweet spot. But the universe is full of surprises. Because I’m learning that where sweet spots are concerned, we’re not limited to just one. At different times in our journeys, if we’re paying attention, we get to sing the song we’re meant to sing in the perfect key of life. Everything we’ve ever done and all we’re meant to do comes together in harmony with who we are. When that happens, we feel the truest expression of ourselves.

I feel myself heading there now, and it’s my wish for you, too.

One of my greatest lessons has been to fully understand that what looks like a dark patch in the quest for success is the universe pointing you in a new direction. Anything can be a miracle, a blessing, an opportunity if you choose to see it that way. Had I not been demoted from my six o’clock anchor post in Baltimore back in 1977, the talk show gig would never have happened when it did.

When you can see obstacles for what they are, you never lose faith in the path it takes to get you where you want to go. Because this I know for sure: Who you’re meant to be evolves from where you are right now. So learning to appreciate your lessons, mistakes, and setbacks as stepping-stones to the future is a clear sign you’re moving in the right direction.

During difficult times
I often turn to a gospel song called “Stand.” In it, songwriter Donnie McClurkin sings, “What do you do when you’ve done all you can, and it seems like it’s never enough? What do you give when you’ve given your all, and it seems like you can’t make it through?” The answer lies in McClurkin’s simple refrain: “You just stand.”

That’s where strength comes from—our ability to face resistance and walk through it. It’s not that people who persevere don’t ever feel doubt, fear, and exhaustion. They do. But in the toughest moments, we can have faith that if we take just one step more than we feel we’re capable of, if we draw on the incredible resolve every human being possesses, we’ll learn some of the most profound lessons life has to offer.

What I know for sure is that there is no strength without challenge, adversity, resistance, and often pain. The problems that make you want to throw up your hands and holler “Mercy!” will build your tenacity, courage, discipline, and determination.

I’ve learned to rely on the strength I inherited from all those who came before me—the grandmothers, sisters, aunts, and brothers who were tested with unimaginable hardships and still survived. “I go forth alone, and stand as ten thousand,” Maya Angelou proclaimed in her poem “Our Grandmothers.” When I move through the world, I bring all my history with me—all the people who paved the way for me are part of who I am.

Think back for a moment on your
own
history—not just where you were born or where you grew up, but the circumstances that contributed to your being right here, right now. What were the moments along the way that wounded or scared you? Chances are, you’ve had a few. But here’s what’s remarkable: You are still here, still standing.

Connection

“Love is the essential existential fact. It is our ultimate reality and our purpose on earth.”

—Marianne Williamson

Talking with thousands
of people over the years has shown me that there’s one desire we all share: We want to feel valued. Whether you’re a mother in Topeka or a businesswoman in Philadelphia, each of us, at our core, longs to be loved, needed, understood, affirmed—to have intimate connections that leave us feeling more alive and human.