Love Warrior (Oprah's Book Club): A Memoir

I can’t describe the ferocity of the fear and rage inside me with words tame enough for the light of day.

“Yes. Like when you dance. Many of the things you see me do each day, I do to be beautiful. It’s why I take time out to spend with good friends. It’s why I read and look at art and always have music I love playing in the house. It’s why I light candles in every room. It’s why I watch you climb our banyan trees in the front yard. It’s why I roll aro

I wonder if this is because I need to check my shame levels daily, like a diabetic checks her insulin levels.

The God I decide to believe in is the God of the bathroom floor. A God of scandalously low expectations. A God who smiles down at a drunk on the floor, wasted and afraid, and says, There you are. I’ve been waiting. Are you ready to make something beautiful with me? I look at the blue cross and decide I will let it be. I will stop deeming myself unw

His whole life has been a retreat into his body. My whole life has been a retreat into my mind. Is this why it is so hard for us to love each other? Because he understands love to be the joining of two bodies, and I believe love to be the joining of two minds? Neither of us is bringing our whole self to the other. Maybe we are exiled from each othe

I remind myself that since crisis means “to sift,”

the hard parts and get to the happy ending. She needs to edit my story so that it fits inside her story about how good things happen to good people and life is fair and things tend to work out nicely in the end.

If the receiver of my story is a Shover, she listens with nervousness and then hurriedly explains that “everything happens for a reason,” or “it’s darkest before the dawn,” or “God has a plan for you.” Standing inside the wreckage of my marriage is too uncomfortable, so she uses these tired platitudes like a broom to sweep my shattered life into a

I start thinking of the dog of hopelessness as an obstacle that will reappear on every curve of the spiral staircase. He’ll always be there waiting and snarling, but with every go-round, I’ll be more confident and less fearful. Eventually, I’ll learn the tricks that will allow me to breeze right past him. But the mad dog of hopelessness will always

No one is watching me, which means I’m not performing. I’m just dancing. Whirling, whirling. For me.