Shine

A Physical, Emotional, and
Spiritual Journey to Finding Love

Preface

PART ONE:
Be All You Can Be, Physically

PART TWO:
Be All You Can Be, Emotionally

PART THREE:
Be All You Can Be, Spiritually

PART FOUR:
Doing It! Making Lifestyle Changes

Epilogue

Acknowledgments

Searchable Terms

About the Author

Copyright

About the Publisher

I
t should have been fine, the way my life was going should have been all I wanted, all I needed. It was such a big, full life.

So, what in the world was wrong with me?

I was a little girl from a tiny Southern town—Badin, North Carolina, and I was raised by a smart, loving, single-parent mother who made sure my sister and I were warm, secure, and could think for ourselves. When my mom got her college degree, we moved to the Miller Homes housing project in Trenton, New Jersey, and when I was nine, she met and later married James Byard, maybe the sweetest man on the planet. Life felt safe and I had it good. My momma Shirley named me Starlet, and early on I decided I’d shine for her, and do my best to make her proud. I still talk to her first thing in the morning, every day of my life.

I knew I was going to be a lawyer when I was eight and watching
Another World
with my grandmother Muriel. I turned to her and asked why one of the charac
ters was always in trouble, and Mama Muriel answered, “That child just needs a good lawyer.”

“What’s a lawyer?” I asked.

“The ones who get people out of trouble,” she answered. “You can rely on your lawyer.”

“Guess I’ll be a lawyer,” I decided. And that was that.

After a million years in school, and after what seemed like a million dollars in loans, I fulfilled my fondest dream. I became a lawyer. I earned my BA degree at American University, got my law degree at the University of Houston, passed the New York bar, and went straight to the Brooklyn district attorney’s office, ending up as senior assistant district attorney in the Homicide Bureau, where I prosecuted some pretty high-profile cases. I’d stand up in the courtroom and say, “Star Jones for the People.” Were there ever before words that sang out with such clarity, strength, and courage?

“You can rely on me,” I’d silently tell my grandma Muriel.

In between murder trials, I started doing volunteer commentary for Court TV. In December 1991, Court TV invited me to be the in-studio daily commentator for the William Kennedy Smith case, and I ended up with a new career as legal correspondent for television, where I covered the latest developments in media-hot cases, such as the Mike Tyson, Susan Smith, Rodney King, and O. J. Simpson trials. During this period I met the man who was to become one of my dearest mentors, the late Johnnie (“If [the glove] doesn’t fit, you must acquit”) Cochran.

It was fabulous and fascinating, and fame-making. Pretty heady times, sister, let me tell you.

And it would get even better as I carved out yet another career. In 1997,
The View,
a new talk show, launched. I, along with my cohosts, the legendary Barbara Walters, Joy Behar, Meredith Vieira, and Elisabeth Hasselbeck, have the time of our lives as we rap on the law, self-esteem, race, family, education, husbands, and lovers—whatever is in the news and whatever interests at least one of us. My particular job is to unmuddy muddy legal and social waters—I hate muddy waters.
The View
has received numerous awards, including the 2003 Daytime Emmy Award for Outstanding Talk Show.

So, there I was on March 24, 2003—rich (well, comfortable, not like I was Mr.
B. Gates), sort of famous, with more clothes than most boutiques, a guaranteed table in the best restaurants in town, but strangely, not very satisfied and even a little sad.

It was my birthday—I was turning forty-one. Now, I
love
my birthday so much. I’ll put on a tiara, dress up, and throw the biggest bashes anyone has ever seen. So, this year, several of my closest girlfriends and I went to Jamaica for the week. The year before, on my fortieth birthday, I’d taken forty of my pals on an over-the-top, decadent, extravagant weekend, but this year I didn’t seem to have the same energy. My weight, for the first time in my life, was weighing heavy on me. I’d always loved my round body, and my dress size didn’t mean a thing to me because my momma and daddy always told me I was the most appealing, fine-looking woman ever born. I was proud of my breasts, my butt, my great legs, and I had more dates and more relationships than I could handle. I could always find pretty clothes in Lane Bryant even though my size went from 16 to 18, from 20 to 22. What was the big deal?

But now, for the first time in my life, I felt unhealthy. I’d gained fifty pounds in the last year and found myself unable to walk from the front of the resort to the back because it was actually painful on my knees. My overall health was getting pretty iffy, and I knew I would soon have to start making some physical changes in my life. The day I can’t hang out with my best girls on the beach as much as I want to—and I couldn’t on that birthday—is a bad day for me. One of my dearest friends in the world, Janet Rollé, was on that trip, and with nothing but love in her heart, she sat me down and asked the question I know a lot of my friends wanted to ask—but were too afraid.

“What’s going on with you?” said Janet. “You aren’t moving as well as you used to, your breathing is labored, you don’t even sound healthy.” And then she asked me what only a good friend could: “What are you going to do about your weight?”

When such a friend confronts you, you have to take stock. You have to stop pretending everything is fine. Then I spoke to my “godmother,” Barbara Graves, who shared her private battle with weight and health. She told me to sit down, stop talking, and start listening to my body before it was too late.

So, I started listening and I started thinking. I thought about how difficult it was in church when I wanted to stand, clap, and sing out for God, but because
my knees hurt, I had to remain seated. I thought about the mail I received from viewers—some mean, sure, but most so concerned because they could literally hear me breathing hard when I spoke on
The View.
I thought about how blessed I was to be able to afford to go to Paris for holiday, and yet, when I looked back on the summer before, when I’d gone to Paris, I remembered that I didn’t enjoy it as much as I usually did. I couldn’t walk from the plane to the terminal without getting winded, having an anxiety attack, and needing my inhalers. I didn’t even feel like shopping—and that was serious. Girl, I looove shopping.

These were bad star signs.

Other things were not terrific, as well. Those relationships I just mentioned. They were wrong, just wrong. Wrong with how I wanted the relationships to end up, wrong with my own behavior: I was not true to myself—you know how you end up saying you like cats when you don’t? That’s stupid and that’s what I found myself doing. Each time, I was trying to become someone I wasn’t so I could maintain a relationship with a guy who wasn’t even right for me. I wanted an extraordinary man who could and would give me the level of love and commitment I was willing to give. I know people don’t love in the same way, but for me, people have to love with the same energy, the same intensity; if I’m passionate for you, you should be passionate for me. I wasn’t getting back what I was giving out—it was that simple. I sure didn’t need a man, but something told me that I was losing out on being a soul mate, a helpmate. I believe that is what God intended me to be.

The poet Adrienne Rich once called it “that seventh sense of what’s missing against what’s supplied.” Much was supplied to me, but my own intuition, in which I firmly believe, told me the man of my dreams was missing. I wanted an enduring love, one that included lust, laughter, best-friendship—the deepest intimacy. I wanted a man I couldn’t stop touching, one who exploded with romantic gestures. I wanted a man who would be zany over me, one who’d drive me loony with joy. I wanted a guy with whom I could find peace and safe harbor, and a little mystery wouldn’t hurt, either.

I already knew what he looked like—or what I hoped he’d look like: tall, smart, passionate, handsome but not stuck-up, and careful about his appearance because I do admire a sense of style. He should be risk-taking and fun. He should have a strong relationship with his family. He should have his own
thoughts and career so he won’t be threatened by Star Jones Inc. He should be a spiritual person. I need to be able to trust him, totally. If you want to tell me a secret, don’t ever say, “but don’t tell your husband,” because I will.

He should have a sweet heart.

Yeah right, Starlet. Did such a guy exist? (Oh yes,
yes,
YES!!!!!!!)

Speaking of spiritual, I wasn’t doing so great in that department, either. I’m a believer in the goodness and rightness of God; I talk openly about my Christian beliefs, and I have a powerful relationship with him. Each person on this earth has to find a personal way to faith and religion—or to reject it. I respect and cherish—I’d always fight for—each one’s right to believe differently. But my way is to love Christ. Most of my happiest moments find their way back to church, and it is to God whom I turn when I seek my deepest heart’s joy or when I need help.

One day, near my forty-first birthday, in the makeup room at
The View,
I’d gotten called on my service to God. I was sounding off on some issue, and I made a statement about being a Christian. The next day, my friend Elena, who worked with me as my makeup artist for years, confronted me. She did it with a little trepidation—after all, I was for all practical purposes her boss—but she said, “Star, I have to share this with you. If you’re going to step out for God, you have to be consistent. You have to put your life in a place where he’d be proud of the direction in which you’re going.”

And then, she proceeded to give me a few specifics where she thought I was failing God, one of which was the language I used. Listen—I was taught by the cops in Brooklyn, and curse words were simply normal conversation. Elena thought it wasn’t consistent with my professed path of spirituality. She also told me I was being a little bit snippy with people lately. She said my attitude and interaction with others was off-putting and “un-Christ-like.” And, she asked, had I noticed that I had a short fuse and was jumping way too fast to get angry with others?

I know it was hard for her to say all this because I’m not the easiest person to put in check.

I listened to her. Why? She came from a pure and honest place. I can always tell that about people.

So, there I was on my birthday, feeling far worse than I’d felt the year before,
and slowly coming to realize that I’d started
not
to be the girl I wanted to be. The girl I didn’t want to be was resting on her laurels. That girl thought she’d accomplished all she needed to do. She thought she was finished growing.

And she hadn’t, she was nowhere near finished.

Maybe God was trying to tell me something, but I wasn’t listening. Then, it all became clear.

Right after my forty-first birthday, I had a long-distance phone conversation with my best friend, Vanessa Bell Calloway, a Hollywood actress. I’d had all these successes, fans, fame, two houses, but I was still alone—not really lonely, but definitely alone. Vanessa and I were schmoozing about the Jack Nicholson movie
As Good as It Gets,
and one line in the film goes something like, “If this is as good as your life is going to get, is it good enough?” Remember that line? Vanessa said yes, she had the most wonderful family and a lovely career, and even if she never got to be the Halle Berry/Nicole Kidman/Gwyneth Paltrow type of superstar, her life was pretty spectacular and already good enough. Then, she asked me the pivotal question that would really change my life.

“If this is as good as it gets, Star, is it good enough for you?”

No. I had to say no. I didn’t want to be just the girl with the cash or just the girl with the successful career. I wanted to shine inwardly as well as outwardly.

Something was clearly missing. I’m not a weepy Wanda type so I didn’t cry, but I felt like it. And looking at myself clearly for the first time in my entire life, I didn’t like what I saw.

I’d become complacent. I’d started resting on my laurels. Hadn’t I become a hot-shot lawyer, then a television star? Wasn’t that enough?

No. I’d stopped working on being the best I could be. I was awfully satisfied with Star Jones, and I couldn’t afford that. We should always be shedding skin and rejuvenating. I’d stopped, I was standing still. I’d gotten lazy.

Also, I was disconnected. My expectations for what I was going to achieve had fallen, and that was the trouble, right there: I didn’t have high enough expectations.

So, I went into prayer.

“God, help me to go in the direction I need to go,” I prayed. “I’ve always come to you every time I wanted to do something careerwise. Now I need to do something personal. I give it up to you. I ask for your direction and your help.”

He helped. He always did. Focus in, I heard. Assess yourself. Change your life.

Sure enough, once I recommitted myself spiritually, what I had to do physically and emotionally became clear. Like tennis balls coming at me as fast as Serena and Venus Williams could serve them, the insights came
fast.
And that’s how I started to get ready to be the best I could be and, ultimately, get ready for the man who would blow me away. I had to grow, focus in, and reconstitute the three biggest areas in my life, not just to be Mrs. Someone but to be the truly fabulous Star Jones.

It took almost two years, but if you’ve been reading the newspapers, baby, you know it worked magnificently—in all departments. It wasn’t luck, although luck always figures into life. Mostly, it took work. It always takes work.

This is what I believe: women can be many things. At different times in my life, I’ve been a stubborn, big-mouth kid, a daughter, a good friend, a tough lawyer, a television star—and finally now, a wife. Although I got married in my forties, I’ve been preparing for the wife part, preparing for Al Scales Reynolds, for a much longer time. I know that many women, by choice or fate, never marry, and that’s just fine with them. For me, though, being married to someone who would complete me was a goal.

Through the last few years, I understood this: whether or not I was lucky enough to meet my soul mate, I still had to do the preparation work on
me
to make myself the best I could be. If I lucked out (and I did), my marriage would be stronger and dearer because I had so much more to offer my partner and our life together. If I never married, I would be stronger and happier alone because I’d prepared myself to be terrific. Win-win situation.