Finding Sarah

by Sarah Ferguson

  Once in LA I was a walking corpse, the Duchess in Disgrace, and I was acting out the part. How could I possibly face the people who had trusted me—and who were now honoring me? I felt like I had let so many people down.

  Julia Morley and Cindy Charkow of the Variety Club, a group dedicated to improving the lives of children and young people everywhere, gave me the strength to get up onstage. I made a passing reference to the sting while accepting my award, saying, “I had a heavy day.”

  Nonetheless, the audience gave me a standing ovation. They didn’t care about the scandal, or my trail of destruction. They believed in me, the person who cared about the plight of children the world over, and now they were expressing their gratitude. They had forgiven me when I felt I was unforgivable, when I could not forgive myself.

  As I stepped off the stage, Simon Cowell whispered in my ear, “Come on, Fergie, you are a strong person. You can get through this. In fact, it makes you much more interesting!” Whether he meant those words or not, they raised my spirits.

  Yet when the evidence of their reckless behavior is strewn like wreckage in the field of their lives, some people might have contemplated suicide. But that word is not in my vocabulary. I was in the gutter and when you get that low, the only place you can look is up. As Oscar Wilde so rightly says, the stars look good from the gutter. “We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars.”

  After the scandal broke, Anne Keating, a stalwart friend and intrinsically good person whom I love, rang me with a suggestion.

  “Get in touch with Ken Sunshine; he wants to help.” Ken is a publicist in New York City. I called him.

  “You must go on the Oprah Winfrey Show and explain your side of the story,” Ken told me. I was both humbled and nervous, but definitely open to it. Ken next called his friend Jack Mori, who is one of Oprah’s producers in Chicago.

  On Tuesday, May 25, I was scheduled to launch my new series of four children’s books, the Helping Hand series, published by Sterling Publishing. I wrote the books to help children understand some of the personal and social issues they will have to deal with while growing up, including starting school, coping with bullying, learning about strangers, and losing loved ones. All children face new experiences as they grow up, and helping them understand and deal with each is one of the most demanding and rewarding things we do as parents. It was my hope that my books would encourage children and parents to talk about these issues.

  As you can imagine, there was much discussion about whether I should participate in the launch, but I was determined not to let my publisher down. As my dad always said, “The show must go on.” I was not about to let my disgrace from the News of the World sting get in my way of promoting these important books.

  I pressed ahead with a busy schedule of public events, including BookExpo America, a lunch with the directors of Barnes & Noble, a cocktail reception with the book trade, and a book signing. Oscar Wilde also said, “Every saint has a past and every sinner has a future.”

  As I moved from event to event, I was constantly besieged by the paparazzi and press but I kept on going. Most demanding of all, I hosted a breakfast for 1,500 BookExpo delegates at which I had to introduce a number of other authors as well as speak about my Helping Hand books. Trying to be as calm and confident as I could be, I poked a little fun at myself. One of my Helping Hand books is entitled Ashley Learns About Strangers. “Perhaps I should have taken my own advice,” I remarked ruefully.

  Chris Ambler, my book publicist, and Marcus Leaver, president of Sterling, said something to me about my “strength of will” in going through with all this, while I had so many other personal and professional pressures to deal with. They kept telling me, “Just try and stay positive,” and basically that’s what I did. Their advice and support got me through the book tour.

  Meanwhile, the call from Ken to Jack resulted in the miraculous: an invitation to appear on the Oprah Winfrey Show and explain myself before millions of viewers. At the time it seemed the right venue, and safe, because the show was to be taped on a closed set. Many of my friends thought I was making a huge mistake. They advised me to go away and not talk to anyone for six months, saying I was too raw and ill prepared to speak out publicly. Perhaps they were right, but I had no intention of doing so.

  My head was hung so low when I got to Oprah’s studios in Los Angeles that it was practically between my knees, as if I were struggling to regain my breath. I was dazed and in a fog. A lawyer friend of mine, Eric Cowan, called and told me that he would help me get through the interview. His wife, Mary, agreed: that on no account would he leave my side. This was true friendship.

  I received much-needed support from other corners. Another dear friend, Linda Medvene, welcomed me with love and warmth. Linda is a well-known wardrobe specialist in LA. She would help me stand tall for my appearance on the Oprah show.

  Despite being propped up by such dear friends, I found myself adrift in Oprah’s questions throughout the one-hour interview, because I had so few answers. I had not yet begun to work on myself, evidenced by the fact that I had not even watched the video when I arrived on set.

  Five minutes into the taping, Oprah insisted I watch it. Seeing my meeting with Mahmood through the eye of a camera made it real, not surreal. Asked how I felt, I said I pitied “her”—“her” being Sarah, the same troubled girl from long ago. I didn’t even know who I was because I had lost myself.

  As I watched the video, I felt so sad for that person, but that person was me. I was a mess.

  When the show aired days later, the public response was unanimously and resoundingly negative. I’d hoped to set the record straight, and got a good kick instead. Everyone found my account vacuous and convoluted, and I suppose it was, except that every bit of what I said was true. My business and personal affairs were indeed vacuous and convoluted, because for years I’d been weaving elaborate webs trying to please people and avoid my deepest fears. Now rejection, failure, shame, and abandonment had all come home to roost.

  My actions were the result of yet another visit from two demons, “Lapse in Judgment” and “Self-Sabotage,” both terrifying figures who look like something that might haunt the Hogwarts corridors in the scarier Harry Potter books.

  When Lapse in Judgment and Self-Sabotage choose to materialize, they strike hard at all my weaknesses, then fade away until next time. I am left with a level of regret and guilt that I cannot even begin to express in words, as well the distress of knowing I’ve let innumerable people down.

  Only days before, I had been buoyant, happy, and hopeful about the future. Chances to blossom and bloom awaited me, of this I had been sure.

  Another businessman, a legitimate one, had agreed to put up capital money to help my company grow and flourish. It was all very exciting and wonderful. He was so happy to meet Beatrice and see such a huge creative output of product and ideas that I have developed over many years. He was excited that many of these products and ideas could be successfully grown into a profitable business over the coming few years. I could not believe that he felt what is behind my passion for life and my ambition to succeed in creating a business, which can also assist in funding my charitable works.

  He wanted to meet again very soon, in fact, in the next few days.

  But it wasn’t to be.

  The day after the scandal broke, the businessman disappeared into the mist. He really wanted nothing more to do with me at all. In fact he said, “Sadly, it looks like you’ve hung yourself, and I will be unable to help you.”

  My reversal of fortune, my warp-speed descent into a hell of shame, was totally my own fault. I had made some big, stupid, careless, undisciplined, indelible mistakes before, but I suppose you can say this one was monstrously epic. Why hadn’t I listened to my gut instinct? Why, why, why?

  For the full flavor of my despair, let me share with you an entry from my diary during that time.

  DIARY ENTRY

  This morning, after a horrific
dream of punishment, I started on a nightmare road of worthless and negative thoughts, namely the greedy ego wolf that is eating at my goodness, kindness, and tenderness. And forgiveness, too.

  I thought of so many “what ifs,” that I drove myself into the bread bin, mayonnaise pot, sausages, and sausage rolls with ketchup. I yearned for soft-boiled eggs with “soldiers”—white toasted bread cut up into long fingers so you can dip the toast into the egg yolk—nursery food from when I was a little girl. I even reached out to seek reassurance from a suitor, who after reading such a needy email as mine, will go running into his cave.

  I have struggled so hard that I resorted to sleep. I am unable to fathom or see further than my own nose at the moment, and this troubles me. I obviously have an excruciating fear of not knowing how to survive going forward. As I don’t know how I will earn a living any longer, I need to rest, but I have to buy food, and I don’t have any money. I must trust … I know. God will provide what I need. So today’s lesson is total trust, and also to believe in myself. And to allow myself to heal.

  I felt like I had jumped off a train bound for happiness, fulfillment, and success, then thrown a hand grenade at it and watched as the train went up in flames. Of all the epitaphs I’ve ever considered, I shot myself in the foot again says it all.

  From: Simon

  To: Sarah

  Everybody makes mistakes. You just make yours rather more publicly than others. We do not judge and we accept you as you are as we always have done. Many receive advice, very few benefit. So I will not try to give you any. It was bad luck to be taken by that reporter. I’m glad it wasn’t me … I would have suggested a million!

  Hey ho … on we go!

  Love,

  Simon

  From: Sarah

  To: Simon

  My dear Simon,

  Thank you so much for your kindness. You have given me a lot to reflect on, and I was so relieved to hear you are still my friend.

  As of this moment, I am head down with embarrassment at my stupidity, my naïveté, and ignorance. I let myself down badly and betrayed myself. I am not in self-pity or any of that. I just messed up, big.

  I need to repair myself, and then the outside damage. Thankfully, when I do, you will be there again, to make me cry with laughter.

  My prince and my girls are right behind me, and thank heavens for that.

  With lots of love,

  Fergie

  2 Journey

  The world is not such a bad place, as long as you don’t take it too seriously.

  OVER THE YEARS, I have been through several serious personal crises. I always managed to survive them, in part because I could always engross myself in my work and my family, and not think about pain I did not want to feel. I am at a stage in my life, however, where this just does not work anymore. I want to go deeper and further and come to terms with my life and with myself in ways that I had always studiously avoided.

  And so, I have to embark on a journey to find myself. Some of my critics might think that’s not much of a find. But to find myself is to find life itself, to recognize parts of me that are valuable and precious, because, deep down, I believe myself worth finding—and saving.

  Along the way, I must answer important questions … Am I really who I say I am? Why do I keep making the same mistakes over and over? How can I change the self-destructive patterns of the past? Can I look deeply inside and think about the implications for my life?

  I know this is going to be one of those bumpy, surprising trips in which detours are a frequent part of the journey. But as we hit bumps in the road, reality sets in and we learn that no matter how hard we try, there are some things we aren’t prepared for. A blind alley here, a detour there—they are all part of the journey. All we can control is the way we choose to react in each situation. Mine will be a journey about naming and befriending the detours, road signs, storms, obstacles and shelters along the way, and it will be a journey where the old maps no longer apply.

  I will go forward with whatever self-compassion I can muster. By nature, I am very hard on myself. When I am self-critical, I treat myself in ways I would never want to treat someone I love. I beat myself up for every imperfection, I punish myself for any weakness, and I discourage myself from going after what I really want.

  Intuitively, I know that whether you want to change a negative behavior (like overeating) or commit to a positive one (like meditating every day), the best approach is to cultivate self-compassion and tap into its power, so that you can stick to your resolutions—and build a better life.

  I understand, fully and honestly, that becoming whole is a process, not a lesson learned in hours or days. I will always be a work in progress. Self-transformation does not happen overnight.

  I believe, too, that our future is defined by our past. Like everyone else in the world, I’ve gone through periods of great sadness. I never looked deeply enough at the pain from my past. I never tried to understand that pain and work through it, and now I was paying the price of an unexamined life. It was all a journey I had avoided, but one I now must take. And so, my voyage of self-discovery must start here with a little detour into my past.

  Most of you know me as Fergie or perhaps the Duchess of York. Google my name—and yes, I confess I’ve done that—and more often than not I am linked to some tabloid scandal or crisis. But what about all the other things I’ve been?

  I’ve been a spokesperson, writer, film producer, photographer, artist, pilot, and entrepreneur. I am a mother. I’m also a charity patron, humanitarian, and children’s rights advocate. I’ve even worked as a waitress and a ski instructor. So much of this seems dwarfed by the various predicaments I’ve found myself in and the distortions of my sensationalized life.

  I was born to a mother, the former Susan Wright, who was typical of upper-class British women—brought up to marry well and be society wives. Few highborn women raised their own children; typically, child-rearing was left to nannies, tutors, governesses, and boarding schools.

  My mother was raised at Powerscourt, the Wingfield family’s ancestral home in Ireland—a commanding one hundred–room mansion perched atop a mile-long driveway ringed by hills and forests and crowned by one of Europe’s most renowned gardens. A series of terraces leads the eye onward to the distinctive slopes of the Sugar Loaf Mountain.

  Now open to the public, Powerscourt is one of the most beautiful country estates in Ireland—the Versailles of Ireland, really. Drive through arched iron gates and down a beech-lined drive, and you’ll pass parklands, gardens, lakes, and fountains on your way to the estate.

  Powerscourt’s opulence belied the fact that my mother’s childhood wasn’t entirely pampered. Her parents were strict, demanding, and unsentimental. As a baby, Mum was cared for by a nanny and was then passed to a governess whose job was to instill refinement and discipline. At age twelve my mother entered a proper boarding school for girls and then an elite finishing school. She was known as a brilliant equestrian at fifteen, debuted before the Queen at seventeen, and by her nineteenth birthday she was married to my father, Ronald Ferguson, who was a suitable match socially and with whom she shared a passion for horses and polo.

  By the time I was born in 1959, the Wright family’s glory days were drawing to a close. I was barely four when my grandmother sold Powerscourt, making my older sister, Jane, and me the first generation of girls on my mother’s side to grow up “outside the gates,” so to speak.

  Mother was an extraordinary person, exuberant and generous, famous for her beauty and charm that instantly lit up a room. Jane and I agree that our mother instilled in us a sense of noblesse oblige that neither of has forgotten and which, to some extent, still shapes our lives. Mum used to say to us: “Now, when you’re walking down the street, and you’re looking for sweets in a shop, or toys in a shop, always look around and see if you can help someone cross the road, or something like that!”

  Mum was at her best teaching us the things she loved, like raising
and riding horses, skiing, and hosting parties. Yet she seemed befuddled by the mundane responsibilities of homemaking and child-rearing. My mother could not stand baby talk, and she had even less patience for crying or pouting—and no tolerance at all for bouts of weakness or fears of failure. Mum had a narrow view of her role as a mother: her duty was to turn out well-groomed, well-rounded, beautifully mannered children. Perfect was the standard Mum was raised to, and that made it the standard for my sister Jane and me.

  I felt most happy and secure when I was at school. Since kindergarten I’d attended nearby Daneshill school, as gentle and nurturing a place as I’ve ever known. I was liked by my teachers and had lots of friends.

  I was nine when my family moved to Dummer Down, the dairy farm my father inherited in 1969 when my grandfather passed away of leukemia. It is located over the county line in Hampshire, in the village of Dummer, about an hour’s drive from London.

  Apart from having a funny name, the village of Dummer is a quaint, tiny clutch of thatched-roof cottages, with a small stone church, a post office, a pub, and a country store. The name of the village, by the way, is derived from Dun (meaning hill) and Mer (lake or pond). A winding lane, canopied with cherry trees and just right for bicyclists and toboggans, leads to Dummer Down, a redbrick Queen Anne house with beamed ceilings, a large country oven, and several bedrooms. The house sits regally over glorious views of the loveliest parts of rural England.

  I was always one to be outdoors, chafing for adventure in all weather, and Dummer Down gave me a kingdom to explore: more than eight hundred acres of gently swelling pasture and woodland. We had black-and-white Frisian milk cows and a neat field of corn, barley, oats, and wheat. There was a rose garden and an apple orchard, which doubled as a dog cemetery. Flowers grew everywhere: pink fuchsia, lavender foxgloves, blankets of white and yellow daffodils. We had everything we could possibly want.