Forty years ago, I sat across from Oprah Winfrey.

Last week, she stood up, walked toward me with her arms open, hugged me and held my hand.

And I cried.

Not because she’s famous.

Not because I wanted to be on television.

Not because I believe Oprah is somehow more important than anyone else.

I cried because this woman had spoken life into me when I desperately needed someone to do that.

And 40 years later, I finally got to say:

Thank you.

We both came from difficult beginnings.

Oprah’s story and mine are certainly not the same, and I would never pretend they are.

But there are pieces of her story that have always resonated deeply with me.

We both knew poverty.

We both experienced instability.

And we both grew up with mothers who, for very different reasons and circumstances, weren’t able to give their little girls everything those little girls needed.

I’ve been thinking a lot about that piece.

The mother wound can run deep.

As a child, you don’t understand mental illness, poverty, trauma or circumstances. You simply know what you long for.

I longed for fresh-baked cookies.

Clean sheets.

A clean bedroom.

A calm house.

Safety.

Consistency.

Someone who saw me and reminded me that I mattered.

And when you don’t receive those things, something happens.

Pain can shut us down.

Pain can make us angry.

Pain can convince us we’re unworthy.

Or sometimes, somehow, that pain lights a fire.

What if the thing you didn’t receive becomes the very thing you spend your life giving away?

I think that’s part of what happened to me.

Someone else’s words became part of my healing.

Forty years ago, Oprah’s words reached a young woman who was surviving, working multiple jobs and trying to figure out who she was and what her life could possibly become.

Her voice was one of the voices that helped me understand:

My past didn’t have to define my future.

Think about that.

Words.

That’s all they were.

But words can wound us for decades.

And words can help heal wounds we have carried for decades.

Sometimes it doesn’t take 100 people believing in you.

Sometimes you need one voice saying:

I see something in you.

What happened to you doesn’t determine who you become.

What if there’s more?

What if you could become the person you were created to be?

That realization eventually became part of my life’s work.

I became a speaker.

A writer.

A coach.

An interviewer.

A talk-show host.

Not because I became Oprah.

Because I became Annie.

But watching Oprah taught me something when I was young:

Words have enormous power.

Use them well.

Pain + Passion = Purpose

For years I’ve taught what I call my Purpose Formula:

PAIN + PASSION = PURPOSE.

Some of my deepest pain created my greatest passion.

Because I knew what it felt like to be unseen, I wanted other people to feel seen.

Because I knew what it felt like to question my value, I wanted other people to recognize theirs.

Because I knew what it felt like not to belong, I wanted to create spaces where people knew:

You belong here.

And somewhere along the way, pain became passion.

And passion became purpose.

Not perfectly.

Not instantly.

And certainly not easily.

DON’T QUIT.

People sometimes call me “Do It Annie.”

There’s a reason.

I do it when I’m confident.

I do it scared.

I do it when somebody says yes.

I do it after ten people say no.

I’ve worked three jobs when that’s what it took.

I’ve sent the proposal.

Made another call.

Written another book.

Walked into another room.

And for probably 20 years, I wrote letters to Oprah.

Lots of them.

Mostly I received standard responses.

Apparently Oprah was not sitting beside her mailbox thinking, “Goodness, hasn’t Annie written lately?”

But I kept going.

And today I’m so grateful she didn’t answer those letters the way I wanted her to.

Because I wasn’t ready yet.

God wasn’t saying never.

Maybe He was saying:

Not yet.

Forty years.

There is something deeply meaningful to me about the timing.

My original appearance with Oprah happened just days before her show went national.

And 40 years later, around that anniversary, somehow I found myself in a room with her again.

Forty.

Throughout Scripture, 40 appears again and again around seasons of testing, preparation and transformation.

And I can’t help but wonder:

Maybe I wasn’t waiting 40 years to hug Oprah.

Maybe God was using 40 years to prepare me to understand what that hug meant.

Because the young woman from 40 years ago hadn’t lived the life I’ve lived yet.

She hadn’t built a speaking career.

She hadn’t written all those books.

She hadn’t earned her CSP.

She hadn’t created her own talk show.

She hadn’t coached all those people.

She hadn’t lived through decades more of joy, rejection, heartbreak, loss, healing, success, failure and becoming.

I thought I wanted the moment sooner.

Today I’m extraordinarily grateful it came exactly when it did.

God’s pace. God’s timing.

So…what did Oprah smell like?

This may be my favorite part.

Since this happened, people have actually asked me:

“What did Oprah smell like?”

I have absolutely no idea.

When OPRAH WINFREY STANDS UP AND STARTS WALKING TOWARD YOU WITH HER ARMS OPEN, apparently perfume identification drops fairly low on the brain’s priority list.

But I’ve thought about that question.

And while I can’t tell you what Oprah smelled like…

I can tell you what she felt like.

Fresh-baked cookies.

Clean sheets.

A clean bedroom.

A quiet house.

Safety.

Warmth.

The feeling of coming home and knowing someone was happy you were there.

And that’s when I understood something I hadn’t fully understood before.

Her voice had represented some of the mothering encouragement I longed for as a young woman.

Not because Oprah was my mother.

But because her words carried something that young Annie desperately needed:

You matter.

Your story matters.

Your past doesn’t get the final word.

Keep going.

And 40 years later, she opened her arms.

For a few seconds I wasn’t thinking about being a CSP, an author, a speaker, a coach or anything else I’ve accomplished.

I was simply a woman being seen.

And I cried.

And then something else happened.

We had spent hours in that room listening to an extraordinarily heavy conversation.

Afterward, people I didn’t even know told me that when I began crying, they cried too.

One person said something I’ll never forget:

“We needed that cry.”

Another described the moment almost as if the whole room got a hug.

Maybe that’s why it happened exactly when it did, too.

And now it’s my turn.

Oprah’s platform reaches millions.

Mine doesn’t.

And that’s okay.

Because I don’t need Oprah’s platform to use what God put in my hands.

I can give someone a book.

I can send a Pineapple Package.

I can give a compliment.

I can interview someone and make their story important.

I can coach a woman until she sees something in herself she couldn’t see before.

I can walk onto a stage and remind one person sitting in the back row:

You have value.

Maybe that’s legacy.

Not how many people know our names.

How many people know their worth because we crossed their path.

Someone poured into Oprah.

Oprah poured something into me.

And now I get to pour into somebody else.

And hopefully someday, they’ll pour it into someone else.

That’s how impact multiplies.

So here’s my question for you:

Who spoke life into you?

Who would you love to meet—not for a selfie, not because they’re famous, but simply to look them in the eyes and say:

“Thank you. Something you said changed my life.”

And what pain from your own past might contain the seed of your purpose?

Maybe you’re still dreaming.

Maybe you’re doing.

Maybe you’re finally beginning to understand your legacy.

Wherever you are:

Keep showing up.

Send the letter.

Make the call.

Buy the ticket.

Walk into the room.

Tell your story.

Use what is in your hands.

Pour into somebody else.

And please…

DON’T QUIT.

Sometimes the answer takes 20 years.

And sometimes the hug takes 40. ❤️

— Authentically Annie