From This Moment On

by Shania Twain

  We all have to grow up, however, and try to see things with more maturity than we did when we saw life through the eyes of a naïve child who has youth as an excuse for her thoughts, actions, and reactions. With Marie-Anne, for example, all I wanted was for us to be friends, not realizing we didn’t share the same moral values until I’d already been stung. So what does that make Marie-Anne in the end? If I’m really being fair and objective, all it makes her is someone I did not understand, someone who was so unlike myself that I could not recognize what she was made of or capable of. All it makes her, when all is said and done, is different from me.

  Putting effort into recognizing and acknowledging my own flaws, I find I’m learning to better tolerate and understand the shortcomings of others. I know deep down that I’m no better than the next guy. I’m struggling through life trying to keep my head on straight, my thoughts pure, and my actions exemplary at all times, but it’s a daily effort, and, if I dare say, impossible. I’m too realistic to imagine I will ever be so perfect as to arrive at such saintly behavior, but I will keep trying and aiming for it anyway because I figure if I keep shooting for the stars, should I miss, at least I’ll have a chance at landing on the moon. The moon was hung for a reason, and you couldn’t get more excellent real estate for stargazing, after all.

  The more straightforward emotions I experience most days of my life, I express pretty freely, except for sadness. I rarely cry. It’s not that I don’t get sad, because I do, even sometimes daily in small ways, but my sadness is often expressed falsely. I might get edgy or short instead of tearing up. It’s like I’m fighting it, and like a fighter, I act more defensive than sad. My heart beats faster, my throat chokes up, squashing my sadness down into my gut, and it stays there, not getting the chance to flow out through tears. I don’t believe this is a good thing for my health, and even though I want to cry when I’m sad, knowing it’s the best thing to do, the truest reaction and healthiest outlet for my feelings, it’s as though I just can’t be bothered with the drama it causes. Your face goes red, your nose starts running, and everyone stops to mother you as if you’re some wounded puppy. Instead, I like being loved and taken care of when my feet are sore and someone offers to massage them, or when I’m hungry and I’m offered a plate of food. I take well to these acts of kindness and accept help and generosity much better than I used to. I have come to enjoy receiving as well as giving over time, which came slow and hard for me. The vocal problems I developed over the years and that manifested during the Up! tour were related to emotional blockage, which is logical considering I have such a hard time crying. I want to let it out, but I have too many excuses waiting at the floodgates, and they dam up the ducts and block the flow.

  A voice specialist I visited in 1999 told me that, in his opinion, my complaints of the strained vocal sound I had gone to see him about were not at all related to the whiplash injury I suffered ten years earlier on a roller-coaster ride. Rather, the problem was an emotional block. I was annoyed with what I considered to be a nonsense theory, but he assured me that the muscles around my larynx, which I explained felt as if they were clutching my voice box, were actually voluntary muscles. In other words, they were controlled by me, not by my injury, the way an involuntary muscle would be. The heart, for example, is involuntary, and no matter how sad or “heartbroken” you feel, your heart keeps beating and won’t stop beating until you are physically dying. The doctor explained that this particular group of muscles that were tightening up my throat were the same muscles that choke you up when you are anxious about something or about to cry. Hence the term “choked up.” When you’re fighting back the tears, these muscles really tighten, and I was going through a chronic period of being “choked up.” Even though the doctor’s explanation was perfectly logical and acceptable to me intellectually, I didn’t accept it as being possible. As if my emotions could be so weak that I would be choked up like that all the time?

  Until I was to revisit this issue again, however, the doctor left me with some very good advice: he told me I needed to cry. He believed that from lack of expression, for whatever reason, I was holding in my emotions, and they had to flow and become unblocked. I had to free my pent-up sadness. As he said all this, I thought to myself, What nerve. He doesn’t even know me. How can he assume I’ve got blocked emotions? He’s a voice box specialist, for crying out loud!

  Just as I was leaving, his advice to me was if I found it too hard to cry naturally, I should watch sad and funny movies regularly. Any kind of emotional expression that brought tears would work. In our period of intense emotional healing after our separations, Fred and I decided we’d stick to comedy and laugh our way to tears until I felt ready to do the tearjerker method. I just didn’t want to get dragged back down into the depths of sorrow for a while. I know I’ll have to go back to it, but one thing at a time. I still feel the need to function and allow life to pull me back down when it wants to, and I roll with it when it does and allow myself to be sad. This is when I find watching sad cinema works. It’s often unexpected and feels good.

  I also am learning to accept that I won’t shine any more or less than I was created to. I just have to follow my heart, never intentionally hurting anyone in the process, and I’ll shine as much as I’m meant to. I don’t expect any more from others, either. This is all any of us can do. Less expectation means less disappointment. I expected too much from Mutt, for example. I expected him to be my life partner. I expected more from his dedication, compassion, and maturity, and set him too high on my list of people with unshakeable integrity, as if there even is such a list in reality. It was my own expectations of human nature that let me down so hard, and I take full responsibility for that. This has been a valuable lesson.

  Since my last record, my attitude has taken a turn regarding professional priorities and goals. I believe that what will come of this period of healing and growing is a different woman from the one the world knows as Shania, in many respects. My views on certain things have changed, which has had a ripple effect. I approach music differently now in the sense that I have a deep desire to reconnect with my noncommercial voice—that is, my singing-around-the-house voice. Likewise, my approach to songwriting has changed, too, as I need more time to play and experiment without being preoccupied with what the finished product will be like. I’m taking the liberty to say and do things I would not have considered before (like writing an autobiography, for one thing).

  Whereas I used to see a division between Eilleen the person and Shania the personality, now they have merged into one: I want to be one person who designates a time and a place for all aspects of her personality and character. Just as swimming is done in the water and soup is eaten with a spoon, making love is for behind closed doors; intimate time with my family belongs to us personally; and public appearances and performances are confined to the stage, studio, and cameras. I can be and do all the different things that make me happy and keep me fulfilled without having to compromise who I am supposed to be. I’ve defined those things for myself now and don’t allow them to be dictated by anyone else.

  I am more comfortable in my own skin these days musically, and although, overall, this freer approach to going about my life will probably result in my making mistakes here and there, I’m not afraid of that. If there’s one thing I’ve realized over the years, it’s that not only do we learn from our mistakes—but when everything goes without a hitch, where’s the challenge, the opportunity to find out what you’re made of? You can’t grow in any aspect of life if you’re not willing to take risks. I find that it’s more fun, too, than always playing it safe. I love to dream up crazy ideas even though I know that most of them will never come to fruition. That’s okay. No dream is a waste of time and energy, just like there’s no such thing as a dumb question. What is dumb is to not ask and, therefore, never know the answer.

  In my recent dreamy state, I see my career becoming guided more by exploration than calculation. I want to go off in search of whate
ver excites me creatively, intentionally leaving my maps and flashlights at home. Getting lost can be a blessing, as you never know what you’ll stumble upon. Above all else, I crave freedom. I think I may have achieved that both in my personal life as well as artistically.

  In the Swiss Riviera, however, I was still not free of a deep-seated anxiety over possibly running into Marie-Anne after the fallout with the betrayal. It was more than possible, actually; it was inevitable. Understandably, I think, the prospect of coming face-to-face with the “other woman” was something that I really preferred to avoid, but the area around Lake Geneva consists of a mere five-kilometer stretch.

  Sure enough, one day I was walking along the lake, and I suddenly spotted her coming in my direction. Big, black high-fashion sunglasses covered half her face. I froze, and my mouth went dry. She confidently marched past me in what felt like slow-motion speed, her body language posturing like a mean, hissing cat, a posse of support pals in tow. Her arrogant air made me feel small and alone. A part of me wanted to confront her, but I was still pretty vulnerable then, and whatever courage I had dissipated quickly. Overwhelmed with intimidation, my heart was racing, and I was pretty much shitting my pants.

  Once there was finally a bit of physical distance between us again, the fear loosened its grip on me, and I felt my breathing returning to normal. The thing I’d been dreading had finally occurred on that first encounter; now it was over, and I’d survived. I was okay. And I would get more okay as time went on. It’s happened more than once now, crossing paths with her in our neighborhood along the shores of the lake. Even a year ago this type of encounter made my heart race, with me not knowing what to do, and although a part of me still wants to confront her, I feel less and less vulnerable to that urge all the time.

  But being anywhere near Marie-Anne still just makes me feel bad, and time may never change that, but distance does help. In the same way you might avoid stinky smells that won’t wash away, if you keep your distance and turn your face to the wind, at least the stench will stay behind you. That was cheeky; but when I’m feeling sour about something I figure it’s better to have a sense of humor.

  At present, I wake up every morning to a dream. I have the perfect partner, lover, and friend who spoils me rotten and is intelligent, gorgeous, athletic, fun, interesting, and interested. He loves my son and is a mature, conscientious, and sensitive parent. When I feel down, all I have to do is look at the incredible son God gave me, the little daughter to love and cherish, the long-standing group of reliable, supportive friends, family, and old friends I’m rediscovering; I enjoy financial independence that I have the satisfaction of having earned through hard work, and life is good. This beautiful life is mine to live. I am free to take my life in any direction I want as long as my little family is happy. I want to now start living each day like it’s the vacation of my life because it actually is. I haven’t been living it that way, but this is my new goal. I want to wake up each day aware of this amazing journey I’m on and make the most of it, whether I stay in bed and just rest, take a jump in the lake, hop in a kayak for a paddle, get on my bike and ride, go for a walk, write a song or a poem (or a book), read, play tennis, smell my roses, get cooking in the kitchen—the list goes on. No matter what our age or lifestyle, we all have simple things we can take advantage of that we more often than not take for granted.

  I’ve often thought what a good idea it would be to post a passage on the wall at the foot of my bed so when I sit up in the morning, the first thing I see is a posted reminder of how beautiful life is, a reminder of how fortunate I am. To be in love and loved, a beautiful family, a home, trusted friends, music, creativity, and health. I want to embrace this feeling of gratitude by being reminded daily that my life is like the most amazing vacation, no matter where I am. No matter how fantastic life may actually be, however, the key is remaining aware of it. It’s easy to forget all the good in your life when something hard and heavy hits you. This is why I think a posted reminder called something like “Good morning, you lucky lady,” or “Rise and shine to another perfect day in your beautiful life,” or “Your life rocks and here’s why,” followed by a list of things I love about my life, is a good idea. Out with the bad and in with the good. This has become my new thinking, and I believe reinforcing the good is a great way to leave less room for the bad to take hold of your time and energy.

  I recognize through personal experience that money can improve the quality of life in some respects, but by no means is it wise to believe it can actually buy happiness.

  I have been on both sides of a few fences in life, and I can tell you with certainty that there is always someone worse off and someone better off no matter what your lot in life. Your fortune or misfortune is relative to whatever surrounds you. Sometimes you are worse off and other times better off, but at every stage along the way—rich, poor, loved, betrayed, hungry, satisfied, lonely, crowded, nobody, or famous—everyone deserves compassion, respect, and consideration. I can speak from experience on both sides. I suffer no less from life’s emotional struggles now that I am comfortable monetarily than I did when I was poor, for example. I allow myself as much compassion during any struggle now as I did when I was on the other end of the economic spectrum. I find that in fame and fortune, you are given less compassion and consideration during challenging times because now that you “have it all” you have no right to complain. It’s not possible to suffer when you have money and fame, in other words. You’re almost not allowed to be unhappy if you are rich and famous, and if you are, you’re considered spoiled and selfish by those observing and judging you.

  It’s usually arrogance, ignorance, or jealousy that suggests the rich and famous have no right to be unhappy or to feel or express their unhappiness. This thinking can only come from those who give too much value to money and fame. These are the people who believe that money and fame are the most important things in life, that once you have them, there is nothing more to need or want. When you believe that someone rich and famous has no rights to public sympathy, it’s because you believe the only things that bring happiness are material and superficial. Those who believe that love, sincerity, honesty, and integrity are the more valuable elements in life also realize that fame and fortune can, in many ways, actually add grief and stress to one’s life rather than make it easier.

  When you come from an underprivileged life, ready to meet the rest of it with a heart full of dreams and ambitions, you had better also be ready to face a world that, at times, will take pleasure in kicking the shit out of you. A world that will try to steal your precious gifts away. Expect life to be cruel and to make it as hard as possible for you to reach your goals, seemingly on purpose. There is little room for big success in life, as it’s often granted to an elite group squeezed into a small space. However, I don’t believe success belongs only to society’s elite of the best educated, most privileged, or lucky. Success does, however, belong to anyone willing to earn it, and who has the talent and ability to be there. All capable people have the right to access the opportunity of success.

  Regardless of what status you were born into in this world, human nature has equipped you with the skills to survive. I’ve learned during my own climbs through life so far that it’s better to be realistic and prepare for a few falls if you’re going to tackle a steep mountain, as mountains get narrower at the top, and there you see everyone fighting for space, footing, and oxygen. The air gets thinner as you get higher, and so does the difference between fair and unfair, and your ability to see clearly while your head is in the clouds. The trick is to hold your head above the clouds to keep a cool mind and clear vision so you don’t lose sight of your goals.

  My personal feeling is that if you are able to survive the climb of life on whatever mountain it is you’ve set out to master, and if in the bit between the base and the peak you learn something from both the good and the bad alike, and if you live to tell about it with gratitude, you’ve succeeded.

  Acknow
ledgments

  Thanks to my parents, Sharon and Jerry Twain, whose lives inspired me to see the importance of writing and sharing this book. May they rest together forever, in peace. Thank you, Fred, my husband, for your endless love, devotion, and tireless encouragement throughout the journey. You were there during those moments when I lost sight of my conviction and needed to be reminded of why I was putting myself through the gigantic feat of documenting my memoirs. For reading my pages from top to bottom, several times over, printing, copying, cutting, pasting, backing up, and mostly for keeping me focused and rational during such an emotional project. Thank you, my Sweet Man, for helping me fulfill my stubborn wish of writing my story myself. Thanks also to my sister Carrie-Ann, who has always been the loyal, selfless wind beneath my wings, my strongest and most dedicated supporter. Thank you to all the family and friends who cheered me on during the times I felt apprehensive and discouraged.

  The months of long hours writing these pages took particular patience and understanding from my son, Eja, as the book became somewhat of a permanent guest in our life over the course of a year. He was always gracious and accepting about the moments the book preoccupied my time and attention, and I hope he takes fond memories with him of us writing side by side during many evenings after school: Eja working on his creative writing homework or personal poems and songs while I worked on the pages of this book. One day he will read these pages, and my wish as he makes his way through the chapters of my life is that he comes to appreciate the importance of documenting what’s in your heart and recognizes the value in sharing such intimacy with purpose and honesty. To respect and honor the truth, the process of discovering it, and the gift of learning from what it has to teach us along the way—to cherish the written word as a precious expression that is neither spontaneous nor fickle; and unlike the spoken word, writing allows more time for reflection and revision. This places a greater demand on the writer to take responsibility for its meaning and what it represents. Regardless of whether this memoir is praised or criticized, my wish is that my son finds peace in having the opportunity to learn about my life, from the words of his mother.