Peace From Broken Pieces: How to Get Through What You're Going Through

by Vanzant, Iyanla

  I sat for a moment wiping my nose with the hem of my skirt before I recognized what I was feeling. It was sheer joy! The joy of freedom? The joy of knowing I would have a place to live? I wasn’t sure, so I did my best to get still and listen to Spirit.

  What you are feeling is joy.

  Joy! What do I have to be joyful about?

  You’re in love!

  In love! In love with who?

  With her?

  Her? Her who? Have I switched sides? The words welled up inside of me like a well-scripted movie scene.

  You love her because she makes him happy. Oh my God! This was deep, so I continued to listen.

  You love him and you will always love him, but you could not make him happy. She does, so, you love her for that. You love her because she was there for him in a way that you could not be, did not want to be.You love her because she can hear him and listen to him in a way that you did not, and it has restored him to his sense of self. You have always wanted him to be happy. You have always wanted him to know love. She has given him what you could not. She is your sister and you love her for what she has given your Beloved.

  The next thing I heard was not so spiritual: Iyanla, you have lost your mind! I knew it was true. I did want him to be happy because I really did love him. I didn’t want him to hurt or be alone or be miserable. My pride and ego were totally deflated that I could not be who he needed and wanted, but there was a part of me that was happy for him and happy for me. This meant that my endless search for daddy was complete. I was all grown up now. This meant that I, Iyanla, was finally ready to have a real relationship with myself, where I could stand on my own two feet without and hidden agendas or needs that I did not put on the table. This meant that in my new home, I could be happy. I could be at peace.

  I sat on the side of the road without any thought of what time it was or where I needed to go. The awarenesses were pouring forth, and I needed to hear them and know them. I remembered Gemmia’s words, “Release the physicality.”

  It applied to more than my lifelong relationship with Eden. It also applied to my house. That house represented my fantasy of having a healthy family and a home where we all could feel safe and loved and protected. It represented the guilt I felt about achieving a level of success that no one else in my family had ever known. I had purchased that house with guilt money, and I now realized I could let it go. In that house, I felt responsible to take care of everybody and to make everything alright for everyone. Gemmia, my husband, my grandson, my granddaughter, and my staff. I had spent hundreds of thousands of dollars providing everything for everyone and working myself to death to do it. My house had been a status symbol of what I could do, of how I provided a shelter for everyone except myself. I had internalized the pathology of my childhood memories of home—the place where I was dishonored, disrespected, and violated. Huge pieces of the puzzle began to fall into place. I could see them, and more importantly, I could feel the shift taking place in my body. Leaving that house was not just about my inability to pay the mortgage. It was about leaving the past behind and creating a new future for myself. A future that did not include people-pleasing and catering to the hidden command to always put myself last on my to-do list. I wish I could explain all of the things that became crystal clear to me that day, on the side of the road, but there are simply not enough words.

  What I do want you to know is that the person who stopped on the side of the road between the house she was losing and the house she was about to rent was not the same woman.

  Thank you God!

  Life for me ain’t been no crystal stair …

  And still I climb.

  EPILOGUE

  I watched Niamoja walk deliberately up the crumbling brick steps to the house where her father lived. Even though she was only 14, she had the walk, the essence, of a woman twice her age. She was focused. She was clear. And she was pissed.

  We had prayed before she got out of my car. She said she was nervous. It felt more like she was terrified, and rightly so. She hadn’t seen or spoken to her father in eight weeks, and their last meeting was anything but warm and fuzzy. Now here she was on a rainy afternoon in August, prepared to ask for—no, demand— something she needed and wanted from him.

  Watching my granddaughter mount those stairs brought up all kinds of feelings for me. The first was pride. I was proud of her courage. She was about to do something that I would have never done, did not know how to do, at her age. My granddaughter was going to ask a man for something she needed. It didn’t matter that he was her father. He was a man.

  I was also scared to death. I was afraid he would disappoint her. I was afraid he would reject her. I worried that her budding courage would be smashed into little pieces that would take years to put back together, and that she would feel it in every part of her life where courage was required. I also felt a strange sense of excitement. I was thrilled to be a part of the birthing of a young woman.

  I knew I had prepared her for this labor of self-determination and self-realization. I had taught her how to breathe and how to push without bearing down too hard. I had told her the truth— that she had a right to ask for what she wanted, and that no matter what the response was, she could be proud of her willingness to stand up for herself. That truth alone was more than anyone had ever told me when I was her age. I had also rubbed her hands and feet with lavender oil. It would help her stay calm. We had had no fewer than ten conversations about what she was going to do, why she was doing it, how she felt about doing it, and what she expected to receive in return.

  She was ready. I was not.

  It seemed as if she knocked for ten minutes before the door finally opened. I watched her disappear into the house. It was then that my stomach somersaulted and my mouth got sour. I propped my head on my hands still gripping the steering wheel, and I prayed: Dear God. Make him civil. Don’t let him hurt her. I don’t want to go to jail today. Thank you! Please!

  I had brought my granddaughter to see her father because we needed him to sign off on the financial disclosure statement for a private, all-girls high school. It was something that she really wanted. It was something that I wanted for her. It was the very thing that Gemmia had talked about since the day she gave birth to her only child. It seemed like a simple request. In fact, it was. What made it difficult for me was the adversarial relationship that had developed between me and the man I once knew and loved like a son.

  What made it so difficult for Niamoja was the fact that he had dropped her off at my home eight weeks earlier and never once called or come by to check on her. When he did call, he thought they would pick up where they left off. She had another idea. She missed her mother desperately and did not feel comfortable around him, his new wife, and their two children. She missed me and her mother’s side of the family. We were what she had known all of her life. We were her community, her biological and spiritual blood. We were in her genes.

  After their separation, Jimmy was a weekend dad who, toward the end, had a strained relationship with my daughter, and who was locked into a permanent power struggle with me. Perhaps if I had not been grief-stricken to the point of insanity after Gemmia died, I would not have allowed Niamoja to go and live with him. Perhaps if Gemmia had not believed so desperately that she was going to live, she would have left specific instructions about her desires. In the four years since Gemmia’s death, my granddaughter was the carrot that Jimmy dangled to keep me in line. He made sure that I saw her only when it suited his needs, his timetable, and his feelings about me in the moment. Her needs were secondary.

  But I had a relationship with Niamoja that was separate from his relationship with her. Leaving his child at my home for eight weeks without calling sent her a very strong message: As long as she was with me, he wanted nothing to do with her. In her mind, that meant that she had to make a choice. I’m not really sure that she was choosing me over him. I am sure that she was choosing what was familiar, what felt right for her, and what kept
her closest to her mother.

  Jimmy might not have abandoned his daughter literally, but through his unconscious and angry behavior, he had abandoned her emotionally. It was the same thing that my father had done to me, which was the same thing that Gemmia’s father had done to her, which was the same thing that Jimmy’s father had done to him. I was sitting in the middle of a multigenerational family puzzle, trying to figure out what piece went where, because I was determined to cure the pathology, to end the karma and the drama once and for all.

  In Niamoja’s circumstances, I was revisiting an earlier incarnation of myself. There she was, feeling abandoned not only by her father, but also by her mother’s death. Just like me. She was a young woman trying to get comfortable in her blossoming and ever-changing body. Just like me. She was a child trying to navigate the maze of dysfunction and disorder brought about by the big people, the adults in her life. It was everything—almost everything—that I had lived through at her age. The difference was that she had me, a wildly conscious, boldly brazen grandmother who was willing to take down the biggest and the baddest to protect her. I prayed that she knew that no matter what, I would not leave her alone to fend for herself, and anyone coming after her would have to get past me first. I was that someone I did not have at her age.

  I lifted my head from the steering wheel just in time to see Niamoja come out of the door. She started down the steps with the same deliberation and focus that had propelled her up them.

  I was desperate to know what her father had said, but at the same time I understood it really didn’t matter. This was about so much more than a little girl who needed her father’s permission or his financial help or his blessing to go to the private school of her choice. This was the transmutation of patterns woven deep into our family’s DNA—a final karmic reckoning. We would no longer settle for pieces. We claimed the right to our wholeness. Gemmia’s death was the way the universe supported us in our healing.

  Years ago, when my career was at its height and I was speaking all over the world, an interviewer asked me a simple question. “Who is Iyanla Vanzant?” It was an innocent question, with no hidden agenda, asked by someone who genuinely wanted to know. To my horror, I found that I had no answer. Now, I do.

  I, Iyanla Vanzant, am a woman, a teacher, an artist, and a willing servant of God. I am Damon and Nisa’s Mumzie. I am a grandmother who gives to her loved ones from a bottomless well of love. I, Iyanla Vanzant, am a human being with flaws and weaknesses, strengths and gifts, and a vision that sees beyond who and what I am not. I am Sahara and Horace’s daughter. I am Ray’s baby sister. I am whole and complete, with a few cracks, dents, and scratches—nothing a little prayer and faith won’t fix. I am willing.

  I am open. I am at peace knowing that Gemmia is very proud of the ways I have made our broken pieces whole.

  I am ready for the next leg of the journey.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Where would I be if not for His grace?

  God’s grace has manifested in my life as the loving support of many people who have stood for me as demonstrations of unconditional love. With humble and reverent gratitude my spirit bows to my parents Horace Lester Harris and Sahara Elizabeth Jefferson. It has taken me more than 50 years to realize and acknowledge the gifts you have given me. My offspring Damon Keith and Nisa Camille for being captive participants in my journey toward a place of healing and peace. I am honored you chose me.

  Although they are mentioned in this work, I must praise God and His grace for showing up in my life as my brother and friend Tavis Smiley for insisting I produce this work. He along with Akmal Muuwakkil, Almasi Wilcots, Carl Big Heart, Carol Small, Dr. Caryl Mussenden, Jeff Chandler, Ken Kizer, Renee Kizer, Laura Rawlings, Lydia Ayo Mu’Ase Ruiz, Marcy Francis, Muhsinah Berry Dawan, Raina Bundy, Rev. Carmen Gonzalez, Minister Louis Farrakhan, Rev and Mrs. Willie Williams, Rev. Michael Bernard Beckwith, Rev. Nancy Yeates, Rev. Shaheerah Stephens, Rev. AdaRA Walton, Rev. John Mann, Rev. Irene Robinson, Rev. Elease Welch, Rev. Deborah Chinaza Lee, Rev. Candas Ifama Barnes, Rev. Deanna Mathias, Rev. Helen Jones, Rickie Byars Beckwith, Steve Hardison, Susan L. Taylor, Suze Orman, Tamara Simmons-Wilson, Vivian Berryhill, Yahfaw Shakor, Danni Stillwell, Reid Tracy, the late Master Coach Ron Davis, and the entire faculty and student body of the Inner Visions Institute For Spiritual Development who have been my bridges over many troubled waters.

  My EFT coaches Lindsay Kenny and Dr. Helen Guttman. My Matrix Re-Patterning Instructor Karin Davidson. Thank you for giving me the tools I needed to re-frame the pathology of my gene pool. I would also like to thank Gary Craig for his work in presenting EFT to the world and Karl Dawson for uncovering and sharing the power of Matrix Re-Imprinting.

  The SmileyBooks team members who helped me cross the finish line: Anne Barthel, John McWilliams, Kirsten Melvey, Alexandria Malone, and Nick Welch. You have my eternal gratitude.

  And finally Ms. Cheryl Woodruff, my mid-wife, cleverly disguised as an editor. Your patience, insight, gentle manner and commitment to my vision gave me the strength and courage to pull all of my pieces together. Thank you is so inadequate for all you have given and put up with from me. But for now, it is the best I can offer in addition to my love.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Iyanla Vanzant is the founder and executive director of Inner Visions International and the Inner Visions Institute for Spiritual Development. The author of 13 titles—including five New York Times bestsellers and the Inner Visions CD Series—she is the former host of the television series Iyanla, and former co-host of the NB C daytime reality show Starting Over. The proud grandmother of eight currently resides in Maryland where she spends many quiet days making scrapbooks and homemade herbal soap.

  NOTES

  We hoped you enjoyed this SmileyBooks publication.

  If you would like to receive additional information, please contact:

  Distributed by:

  Hay House, Inc.

  P.O. Box 5100

  Carlsbad, CA 92018-5100

  (760) 431-7695 or (800) 654-5126

  (760) 431-6948 (fax) or (800) 650-5115 (fax)

  www.hayhouse.com® • www.hayfoundation.org

  Published and distributed in Australia by: Hay House Australia Pty. Ltd.

  18/36 Ralph St. • Alexandria NSW 2015 • Phone: 612-9669-4299

  Fax: 612-9669-4144 • www.hayhouse.com.au

  Published and distributed in the United Kingdom by: Hay House UK, Ltd

  292B Kensal Rd., London W10 5BE • Phone: 44-20-8962-1230 Fax: 44-20-8962-1239 • www.hayhouse.co.uk

  Published and distributed in the Republic of South Africa by: Hay House SA (Pty), Ltd., P.O. Box 990, Witkoppen 2068 • Phone/Fax: 27-11-467-8904 info@hayhouse.co.za • www.hayhouse.co.za

  Published and Distributed in India by: Hay House Publishers India, Muskaan Complex, Plot No. 3, B-2, Vasant Kunj, New Delhi 110 070 • Phone: 91-11-4176-1620 • Fax: 91-11-4176-1630 • www.hayhouse.co.in

  Distributed in Canada by: Raincoast • 9050 Shaughnessy St., Vancouver, B.C. V6P 6E5 • Phone: (604) 323-7100 • Fax: (604) 323-2600

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1 Here Is Also There

  Chapter 2 The Walking Wounded

  Chapter 3 From the Pot into … a Bigger Pot

  Chapter 4 Blind in One Eye … Can’t See Out of the Other

  Chapter 5 Territorial Invasion

  Chapter 6 The Divine Setup

  Chapter 7 Ain’t Nobody’s Prisoner!

  Chapter 8 The Personal Lie

  Chapter 9 Pushed to the Breaking Point

  Chapter 10 Me and Mickey Mouse

  Chapter 11 Be Still and Know

  Chapter 12 The Soul Sisters

  Chapter 13 Things Fall Apart

  Chapter 14 Truth and Consequences

  Chapter 15 The Upward Downward Spiral

  Chapter 16 Unfinished Business

  Chapter 17 Life and Death

  Chapter 18 Beyond Death

&n
bsp; Chapter 19 Starting Over

  Chapter 20 Standing in Grace

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments.

  About the Author