What I Know For Sure by Oprah Winfrey

is that ‘it’s almost over.’ What a gyp.”
    Beverly Johnson said, “Why am I trying to keep this teenage body when I’m not a teenager and everybody knows it? That was an epiphany for me.”
    And Cybill Shepherd’s honesty offered terrific insight: “I had a great fear, as I grew older, that I would not be valued anymore.”
    If you’re blessed enough to grow older, which is how I look at aging (I think often of all the angels of 9/11 who won’t get there), there’s so much wisdom to be gained from people who are celebrating the process with vibrancy and vigor and grace.
    I’ve had wonderful mentors in this regard. Maya Angelou, doing speaking tours in her mid-eighties. Quincy Jones, always off in some far-flung part of the world creating new projects. Sidney Poitier, epitomizing who and what I want to be if I’m fortunate to live so long—reading everything he can get his hands on, even writing his first novel at age 85, continuously expanding his fields of knowledge.
    For sure we live in a youth-obsessed culture that is constantly trying to tell us that if we’re not young and glowing and “hot,” we don’t matter. But I refuse to buy into such a distorted view of reality. And I would never lie about or deny my age. To do so is to contribute to a sickness pervading our society—the sickness of wanting to be what you’re not.
    I know for sure that only by owning who and what you are can you step into the fullness of life. I feel sorry for anyone who buys into the myth that you can be what you once were. The way to your best life isn’t denial. It’s owning every moment and staking a claim to the here and now.
    You’re not the same woman you were a decade ago; if you’re lucky, you’re not the same woman you were last year. The whole point of aging, as I see it, is change. If we let them, our experiences can keep teaching us about ourselves. I celebrate that. Honor it. Hold it in reverence. And I’m grateful for every age I’m blessed to become.

     
     
    I never foresaw doing the Oprah show for 25 years. Twelve years in, I was already thinking about bringing it to a close. I didn’t want to be the girl who stayed too long at the party. I dreaded the thought of overstaying my welcome.
    Then I did the movie Beloved, portraying a former slave who experiences newfound freedom. That role changed the way I looked at my work. How dare I, who’d been given opportunities unimagined by my ancestors, even think of being tired enough to quit? So I renewed my contract for another four years. Then another two.
    At the 20-year mark, I was almost certain that the time was finally right to call it a day. That’s when I received an e-mail from Mattie Stepanek.
    Mattie was a 12-year-old boy with a rare form of muscular dystrophy who had appeared on my show to read his poetry and became an instant, dear friend. We exchanged e-mails often and talked on the phone when we could. He made me laugh. And sometimes cry. But most often he made me feel more human and present and able to appreciate even the smallest things.
    Mattie suffered so much in his young life, going into and out of the hospital, yet hardly ever complained. When he spoke, I listened. And in May 2003, as I was in the throes of deciding whether to bring the show to an end, he was a singular force in changing my mind. Here’s the letter he wrote me:
    Dear Oprah,
    Hello, it’s me, Mattie … your guy. I am praying and hoping to go home around Memorial Day. It’s not a guarantee, so I am not telling a lot of people. It seems that every time I try to go home, something else goes wrong. The doctors are not able to “fix” me, but they agree with me going home. And don’t worry, I am not “going home to die” or anything like that. I am going home because they can’t do anything else here, and if I heal, it’s because I am meant to heal, and if I don’t, then my message is out there and it’s time for me to go to Heaven. I personally am hoping