Finding Sarah

by Sarah Ferguson

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  Contents

  My Dear Reader

  Chaptter 1: Lost

  Chaptter 2: Journey

  Chaptter 3: The Lotus Flower

  Chaptter 4: Far from the Madding Crowd

  Chaptter 5: Montecito

  Chaptter 6: Lifeline

  Chaptter 7: Return to Dummer

  Chaptter 8: Sister Act

  Chaptter 9: Looking for Love

  Chaptter 10: Mind Chatter

  Chaptter 11: The People-Pleaser

  Chaptter 12: The Two Wolves

  Chaptter 13: I Swallowed a Duvet

  Chaptter 14: The Miracle Man

  Chaptter 15: “I Am a Thousand Winds That Blow”

  Chaptter 16: No-Man’s-Land

  Chaptter 17: Healing in the Desert

  Chaptter 18: Into the Maze

  Chaptter 19: Heather Blaze

  Chaptter 20: Horse Power

  Chaptter 21: Bent but Not Broken

  Chaptter 22: No Mission Impossible

  Chaptter 23: Rejuvenation

  Chaptter 24: Wedding Bells

  Chaptter 25: Adventure as Therapy

  Chaptter 26: The Great Slave Lake

  Chaptter 27: Kamalaya

  Chaptter 28: Mr. Carpenter

  Chaptter 29: The Ant and the Buzzing Bee

  Chaptter 30: Breakthrough

  Chaptter 31: Hugging Pain

  Chaptter 32: Found

  Acknowledgments

  Photography Credits

  Text Permissions

  About Sarah Ferguson

  My dear reader,

  “To love one’s self is the beginning of a lifelong romance.”

  — OSCAR WILDE

  More than a year ago, my life was so off course that I wondered whether I would ever be able to find my way back. I was in the gutter, no question. I had suffered the consequences of a bad decision, made without careful reasoning. I had flung myself into a mess, unthinkingly, like someone who dives into a pool without checking the depth. I found myself walking around asking why I was even living. I was broken and lost, not even sure where I was, but out of this emotional barrenness I knew I had to find me. And so, I took a journey to find myself and begin the process of healing all the broken places. Finding Sarah is the story of that journey.

  There is a reason I have chosen to share my journey with you. There was a time in my life when I would have been paralyzed by the adversity I’ve experienced. But I have come to understand that a terrible experience, though difficult at the time, can become a source of strength and courage.

  While it is my journey, it is also yours. I honestly believe that if you and I were to sit down together, it is likely we would discover more things that we have in common than things which set us apart. In listening to my story, you might say, “Oh, that feels like what I’ve been through.”

  So many of us, though we may not admit it, have lost ourselves at one point or another—whether through divorce, loss of a loved one, addiction, illness, depression, or some other life trauma. And somehow, some way, we must find our way back. It is never too late to find a new direction, realize a dream, or take back control of your life.

  On any journey, there are people you meet who enrich your experience more than the places you visit. I had amazing guides—real-life angels—who shined the light on the dark parts of my life and helped me find my way back. I met them during the taping of my docu-series, Finding Sarah, and you will meet them on every page of this book and learn from them, as I did. They are experts who helped me understand the source of all my problems—from comfort eating to self-loathing, from reckless overspending to the notorious mishaps I habitually find myself in. But there are other guides, too—my friends and family who offered me support and wisdom along the way, and I include bits of their guiding wisdom on these pages as well. I believe that some of the most loving, wise advice comes from those who know us well, and love us even more.

  Finding Sarah is not a self-help book in the traditional sense. Nor is it a how-to program with steps. Rather, it is my attempt to inspire you, through my own experiences, to think about how nagging aspects of your own life may be holding you back, then to encourage you to follow your instincts and find your true path.

  As it turned out, Finding Sarah segmented naturally into thirty-two parts. Significantly, the number 32 in many spiritual practices represents truth and how to live it. Finding the truth of who I am is at the heart of my journey.

  As I wrote this book, both who I am and where I’ve been became clearer to me, more defined. I have seen where my life took wrong turns. I can point to places where I changed, the events and people who taught me the meaning of joy, and the steep hills where I felt the burden of despair.

  When our lives are in harmony, we have an instinctive sense of the right direction. We can move steadily ahead through life without fear of getting lost, knowing that through the storms and uncertainties, we shall come to the right place at last.

  My hope and prayer is that you will find that “Right Place” in your own life, as I am beginning to—life is a work in progress.

  1 Lost

  I can’t believe I created such a merry hell.

  ONCE UPON A time I was a princess, married to a handsome prince, and living in a palace. But then the fairy tale began to unravel. I got divorced, started my life over with two young daughters, went broke twice, and watched my life be brutally sensationalized by the international press. I never imagined I could live so unhappily ever after.

  As I write this, I am immersed in extreme personal turbulence, and I am trying to buckle up with whatever remains in my emotional and spiritual resources. The facts are these: In May 2010, my life spiraled into a private hell when I was caught unawares, on a hidden camera, accepting money from a tabloid reporter posing as an Indian business tycoon who supposedly wanted to back my various business ventures.

  The whole mess started innocently enough, when I began looking for investors willing to put their capital in my business and help me rebuild a loyal following for my books, merchandising, and other enterprises. One of these projects was to build a girls’ school in Afghanistan.

  Any business that needs investors or financing is usually required to produce a business plan—showing information such as financial reports, projections, and the company’s goals before receiving funding. I had a business plan—a strong one. Even so, my business had suffered in recent years because so much money had been taken up with paying wages and past bills. A repercussion of this mess was my inability to pay the wages of a longtime friend and trusted staff member. He needed that money to pay for his college tuition and room and board—to the tune of forty thousand US dollars. I wanted to help him.

  In my own defense, I have always been a great one for giving. I played Santa all year round. I never saw my generosity as a fault. I got such a high from showing friends what I thought of them; it was almost addictive with me. I craved the appreciation and approval that came from pleasing other people. It was always about buying everyone’s affection. I had to be the best fun, the most generous, because obviously no one could like Sarah for who she really was.

  As for keeping my businesses alive, I had no idea how I would come up with the money, since at the time I was seriously about to go bankrupt.

  Financial rescue seemed in sight when my friend—the person who could not make his college expenses—and I learned that a mutual f
riend of ours could introduce me to an investor who would help me. The mutual friend told us that this individual was a successful, well-known businessman from India who worked for a prestigious conglomerate of companies and that he wanted to back my projects.

  And indeed, when we checked, there was such a company that did have this person working for them. He was legitimate—he came highly referenced—and by all accounts, he was for real. Optimistic, I agreed to the introduction.

  From that point forward, everything was set in motion, irrevocably so. I first met with this businessman at the Mark Hotel in New York City. I asked him to sign a confidentiality agreement, to which he agreed, and he would sign at the next meeting.

  Several days later, I asked two of my assistants to retrieve the signed agreement. He had not signed it, however. He curled it up, and said, “I just need to give it to my lawyers.”

  I smelled a powerful, foul odor that best can be described as dead rats in the basement. My instincts told me not to do it, that it wasn’t right, that I couldn’t trust him. Despite twinges of something amiss, I said to myself, “No,” because this agreement would mean I’d be able to meet my needs and take care of all the people who were important to me. I recklessly plowed forward.

  Back in London, I texted the businessman to have dinner with me at Mosimann’s, a fancy wood-paneled restaurant in the shape of an octagon. Ironically, the building was once a nineteenth-century church, a place originally intended for peace and spiritual refuge.

  When I arrived, I asked him if he had signed the confidentiality agreement. He said, “I’ll do it tomorrow morning.” I felt he might be waffling, but I went on with dinner anyway.

  Over a meal of pea soup, a main course of lamb and vegetables, and a bottle of Burgundy, we discussed how our business venture would play out. After we finished eating, the man paid our dinner tab. I jumped into a limousine with him to travel to what he claimed was his flat in the trendy Mayfair district of London.

  During our meeting, I mentioned in passing that by doing business with me, he might get to meet Prince Andrew, because the Prince and I are a team. Under no circumstances did I offer to broker an introduction to my former husband, as it has been claimed. I love Andrew to this day, as I did when I met and married him, and I would never, ever, sell him out or betray him.

  Of course, the British press and international media spun the truth into a web of lies. On the now infamous, surreptitious videotape that has been broadcast around the world, you see me making a rather sloppy spectacle of myself, sipping too much wine and puffing on a cigarette. The tape was purposely cut to look like I was brokering a personal introduction. Which, as I have said, I did not do. It was edited, completely out of context, and showed the following conversation:

  “Is that a deal?” he asked.

  “Yes,” and I shook his hand, staring straight into his eyes. “Look after me, and he’ll look after you.”

  The full sum would “open up everything,” I told him.

  “I don’t want to get anybody in trouble or just …” he said.

  “But you will be his friend.”

  “Great. But his job is trade, isn’t it? Isn’t it his job?”

  “Yes, it is, but he meets the most amazing people.”

  “Well, let’s do it.”

  “He never does accept a penny for anything.”

  “No, of course not, no.”

  The investor produced wads of cash from a safe—forty thousand dollars—and dropped the bills down in front of me on the coffee table. Those funds represented a good-faith down payment. The other investment money would be wired to my bank account. He handed me the money in a black computer bag, and I got in my car to be taken home by my driver, Harry.

  Honestly, I was elated over the business arrangement. It was all very heady and wonderful. I wanted to believe that this man would put his money to work for me, I really did.

  The next day, my daughter Beatrice and I took the train up to Newcastle University to see my other daughter, Eugenie, who is a student there. We had a lovely picnic together. I was in such a great mood, relieved to be away from negativity, snuggled safely away from the pressures of everyday life.

  A huge proud moment came for me that week on May 20 when Beatrice, Eugenie, and I unveiled the Teenage Cancer Trust unit at the Great North Children’s Hospital in Newcastle, a stone’s throw from where Eugenie was studying.

  I have lost friends to cancer—my father, stepfather, best friend, and grandfather. They all succumbed to this dreaded disease—and I have had scares myself, too, so this charity holds a particular place in my heart.

  I have been a royal patron of the Teenage Cancer Trust for more than twenty years. Its mission is to build specialist units so that youngsters do not have to go through the frightening experience of being treated on an adult ward. It is estimated that being treated on a Teenage Cancer Trust unit increases survival rates of patients by 15 percent, and this unit, I believed, would help create miracles and beat these cancers into a hasty retreat.

  In the UK, six teenagers a day are diagnosed with cancer. The world of teenage cancer can be a dark one. Teens are isolated from friends, and cut off from the normal things kids do every day. They need a place that can help them feel as “normal” as possible while being treated. When you’re a teenager, all you want is to fit in, right? This was one reason why the new unit was designed specially for thirteen-to-eighteen-year-olds and included a kitchen and dining area, a parents’ room, a complementary therapy room, and access to the Internet and television. We wanted to let these kids have as normal a life as we could give them. To not treat them as teenagers with cancer, but as teenagers who are incredibly alive.

  As a patron, my job was to raise funds and awareness to fight and treat teenage cancer. We raised three million dollars for the new unit, which replaced the original six-bed Teenage Cancer Trust ward that I opened in October 1997.

  I would visit with every teenager before I left; I refused to be rushed off. Being a mother myself, somehow I could read into them, and we had loving one-on-one conversations. I sat very close to each teen, held their hands, and chatted. The important bit is not what I said—it is that these children needed to be heard. In some respects, listening is the single most important thing you can do. A small dose of such kindness can be powerful medicine. To see the delight on the faces of the teenagers makes you want to do all you can to help.

  These were private, beautiful moments that no one could ever take away from me. Hearing their stories was inspirational and filled us all with a sense of hope.

  After the opening of the unit, Beatrice and I took a train back to London. On my way home, my publicist, Kate Waddington, raised a red flag. Kate has been loyal and steadfast to me for more than twenty years. She had beautifully organized the unveiling of the Teenage Cancer Trust and coordinated all the media.

  “Duchess, are you sure that Indian businessman was for real? I think you’ve been stung,” she said.

  It was only a phone call, but from a wonderful mood, I plunged into a bottomless abyss, suddenly feeling like I wanted to throw up. It just couldn’t be true.

  On Friday, Beatrice and I boarded a plane to attend Naomi Campbell’s birthday party in the south of France. The party swung into action on Saturday night. At about 4:00 AM, Kate telephoned Beatrice. The chorus “Tonight’s gonna be a good night” from the song “I Gotta Feeling” blared loudly as people happily danced, belying the crisis that was about to hit.

  It was one of those phone calls you never forget.

  “Mum, Kate told me it was a sting,” Beatrice said. Her head drooped, like a flower too heavy for its stem.

  The raggy tabloid News of the World had published an exposé of my meeting with the investor. All hell promptly broke loose. Beatrice and I hustled out of the party and took a 7:00 AM flight back to London.

  The investor was none other than News of the World investigations editor Mazher Mahmood, who set up the sting and infiltrated my
life by impersonating an executive. Also known as the “Fake Sheikh,” Mahmood is a controversial figure who has targeted members of the Royal Family before.

  As for the scoop about me, the tabloid’s headline, in typical scummy fashion, blared: “Cash for Royal Access Sensation.” Nearly the entire front page was plastered with a hazy photo of me, reaching out to seal the deal with a handshake. The news broke on Sunday, May 23, 2010.

  The worldwide media swooped down on me like freshly killed prey. I was picked apart, pieces of my carrion strewn about like parking lot litter.

  Beatrice became protective, asking over and over, “Why? Why were you set up this way?” Eugenie promised her complete support. In them I saw enormous courage and unconditional love, and it filled my heart until my shame broke it to bits.

  A Buckingham Palace spokesman issued the following statement: “He [Prince Andrew] has carried out his role of Special Representative with complete and absolute propriety and integrity.”

  I apologized publicly for my “serious lapse of judgment” and added: “I can confirm that the Duke of York was not aware or involved in any of the discussions that occurred. I am sincerely sorry for my actions.”

  Deeply ashamed, but courageously determined to fulfill my commitments (my father insisted I always get back on a horse after a fall), I flew to Los Angeles for a charity dinner to accept the Catherine Variety Sheridan Award for my philanthropic work with underprivileged and disabled children. My darling daughter Beatrice had to pass the baton to Camilla, who had drawn the short straw to travel with me. Luckily, Camilla is steeped in kindness and her gracious, kind blue eyes willed me to hold on. During the flight to Los Angeles I sat bolt upright, an eye mask over my eyes, though really my eyes were wide open like those of a big gray horned owl. I was paralyzed by fear, unable to move. I was sure I would throw up even a cup of tea. I wanted to hide in the small lavatory and never come out. The flight attendant came up to me and asked me if I would like a drink. Looking into my eyes, she asked if I would like the whole bar! I had been crying so hard that my eyes were hazed over with sadness.