by Donna Karan
I had been so afraid of being left alone my whole life that I had always kept myself busy. I became my mother (someone I swore I’d never be) and went to work, where I was surrounded by people. I was thriving professionally, but personally, I still didn’t feel good enough. I’m not alone, I know. So many of my women friends, even the famous ones, tell me the same thing—that they are always working hard to prove they are worthy of being invited to the party. At work I had to be a leader and make decisions. The minute I walked in, I switched it on: showtime. But inside, I was still the girl with the crazy mother and the insecure, outsider feeling. I looked in the mirror and saw the girl they sang about at camp: “spaghetti legs and a meatball head.”
Sitting with the rock, I was sitting with myself. I was getting to know Donna Karan the woman, listening to her, reflecting on where I’d been and where I was going. It felt good to sit and just be.
One day, after a few months of visiting this rock, I returned on a Saturday morning and it was gone. My heart jumped. I frantically walked up and down the beach. I searched and searched, turning over every rock even remotely its size. I couldn’t accept that it was gone. Was it a sign, another death of some sort?
That same day I chose a new rock—this time a boulder poking out of the water that was so huge you could sit on it. Nothing was going to move it. I said out loud, “Now you’re going to be my rock.” I climbed onto it, turned to face the ocean, and was still. I kept my eyes open, took in the expansive view, and listened to the rhythmic sounds of the lapping water. I saw how small my problems were in comparison—how small I was in comparison. By being still, I became open. I could listen with my mind, body, and spirit to myself and to what the world was telling me. Most meaningful was that the boulder became my connection to the other side, to people in my life who had passed. It’s where I talked to my father, my mother, and, years later, to Stephan. Interestingly, I always felt my parents’ presence in front of me, out at sea, but Stephan’s was always behind me, as if his spirit hadn’t quite left me.
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When in doubt, I turn to nature. It doesn’t ask anything of you other than to observe and appreciate it. For a problem solver like me, it’s a relief to surrender and inhale the beauty. The beach is my greatest escape from the madness of my life. The magnificence of the ocean awakens me to myself. It’s larger than life and gives me perspective. I can be alone on the beach without being afraid. The shoreline is open and embracing. It’s a big smile. I can’t tell you how many color stories I’ve created from my beach walks. But more than a place to find inspiration, the beach is my sanctuary, my personal temple where I can reflect, regroup, and recharge.
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Over the years, I’ve come to realize that I willingly gave away my identity. That’s what women do. We take on so many roles: mother, wife, sister, daughter, designer, leader, philanthropist, caregiver, and on and on. We give it away every day, never saving a piece for ourselves. It’s easier to solve the daily problems at work and home than to face ourselves. My quest has been to let go of the ego—this brand called Donna Karan—and find myself. To empower the real Donna, the one who is lost, afraid, unsure. Being famous takes you away from working on yourself.
My spiritual teachers have helped me appreciate that you know who you are deep down inside, but people want you to be something else. You can be powerful and vulnerable at the same time. The right hand can be strong, and the left hand can be hurting. One hand is always giving, but the other doesn’t know how to receive. Life is full of dualities, two sides of the same coin.
My journey to reconnect with myself has made me open to any experience that teaches, heals, or helps me grow. Therapists, psychiatrists, psychics, astrologists, yogis, channelers, tarot card readers, drummers, acupuncturists—they all have something to offer. I’m a seeker. Of course, there are quacks out there, but if you assume everyone is a quack, you’ll never experience the possibility of enlightenment, and to me that’s the worst fate of all. I don’t pretend to have any answers. I’m on the path. The more I ask, the more there is to learn. I’ll never arrive, I’ll never have it all figured out. It’s a private road, but I haven’t had to travel it alone. From the start, I had a trusted companion.
It wasn’t Stephan. He was far too rational. He believed in therapy, especially when it came to communicating better with his children or with me. But he wasn’t interested in my “woo-woos,” as he called them. He was even-keeled and calm, and he really enjoyed being with himself, whether he was riding his motorcycles, sketching, or sculpting. He patiently tolerated my spiritual search, rolling his eyes playfully. “What’s my wife up to now?” he’d ask. I was a source of endless amusement for him.
Gabby is more like Stephan, though maybe not as patient. She’s linear, organized, very grounded, and black and white—the opposite of me in many ways, but exactly like me in others. I’ve tried to get her to join me in my various pursuits, but her answer is always the same: “When you figure it all out, then we can talk.”
So neither my husband nor my daughter shared the path with me. Nor did Patti, though we connect on other “out there” things (more on that later). No, my fellow explorer is my friend Barbra Streisand. She is my spiritual sister. Fashion may have introduced us, but our parallel lives and shared hunger for something deeper and more meaningful have been our glue. When I first saw Yentl, Barbra’s 1984 film (and without question her most personal project), I had tears in my eyes. But when I read the final credit, “Dedicated to my father,” that was it. I knew we were destined to be close friends. Her father had died when she was a baby, just like mine. We’d both grown up with difficult mothers, which made the loss of our fathers that much harder to bear because we both fantasized that they would have protected us. And we shared fame. Barbra and I were both successful at an early age. It’s hard to remember when we weren’t public people.
So when Barbra called me one day in the early 1990s to invite me to a Brugh Joy workshop, I jumped. Dr. W. Brugh Joy was a Mayo Clinic physician who, after being diagnosed with pancreatitis, transitioned into alternative healing and spiritual therapies. He led powerful self-development workshops. Barbra brought her son, Jason, who was around twenty-five at the time and a real sweetheart. I loved the whole experience. Trust me, it was hard work—lots of facing fears and exploring darkness. Through dreamwork, meditation, and other exercises, Brugh taught us about the destructive force of the ego and showed us just how universal these issues are. There were some twenty-odd people in our group. He would focus intensely on one person and his or her story, and we would all have similar emotional reactions. We realized that we all had the same vulnerabilities.
After that, Barbra and I, two nice Jewish girls, were up for anything. We drove upstate to see the Guru Mai at her ashram in the Catskills and then to a Deepak Chopra retreat at the Maharishi Ayurveda Health Center in Lancaster, Massachusetts. Deepak, a medical doctor who has long embraced a mind-body-spirit approach to well-being, gave me my first mantra and introduced me to Ayurveda’s holistic healing system, developed thousands of years ago in India. At the retreat, we learned that Ayurveda identifies three kinds of prakriti, or “natures.” There’s vata, which is the active, restless, energetic type—that’s me. There’s pitta, which is more cerebral, insightful, and decisive—that’s Barbra. And there’s kapha, which is serene, calm, and tolerant—neither me nor Barbra, not by a long shot. This became clear when it came time for the hot oil treatments, called pizhichil, which involve a four-hand massage while you lie in a tin pan filled with hot oil. Barbra and I were in separate but adjacent rooms. The goal was to transport us to a place of calm, but she was horrified by the oil and complained the whole time. “This is my idea of bliss, Barbra,” I called to her. I was in heaven, loving all the warm liquid pooling over my body.
“You know what?” she shouted back. “You’re really crazy!”
Years later, after Stephan died, Demi Moore called with an idea. She and I had become great friends afte
r meeting in the midnineties at her then husband Bruce Willis’s club, Mint, where he would perform with his band. Demi knew I was having a hard time after Stephan’s death and asked if I wanted to join her and her friend Eric on a trip to Dr. Nonna Brenner’s Healing Center in Austria for leech therapy, which supposedly rid you of toxins and negativity. It took place in a private house in the mountains—not luxurious, but very quaint. We had an enema every day. We took mountain walks. We journaled, and Nonna, a trained psychotherapist, took us into her “soul room” for one-on-one therapy. It was one-stop body cleansing and spiritual healing. And yes, every day we had leeches (four, five, or more) put on our toxic or stress points in order to suck out all the crud. Mine were mostly on my back and neck, with a few on my chest. I was scared the first time and squirmed as they placed them. But then, nothing—I didn’t feel a thing. They’d sit there for a half hour until they were so blown up with blood they practically fell off, leaving pink rings on my skin. I felt a little light-headed. For days afterward, I felt emotionally lighter, too.
I’m also addicted to silent retreats, which force you to tune out the exterior world, look deep inside, and speak with yourself. This may surprise you, since I’m not exactly the quiet type. But the truth is, I’m not very social. I like to talk and connect, but I also love quiet, as long as I have the comforting presence of others around me. I liked to be guided through my silence, not abandoned into it. I learned this the hard way. Once, just after finding out that Stephan was sick, I went away on a silent retreat in the middle of the woods in Colorado. You’ve heard of Outward Bound? This could have been called Inward Bound. It was conducted by a couple with whom I had already done a lot of spiritual work. They picked me up at the airport, and we went grocery shopping. Then they left me in a cabin for three days. I did my own cooking and cleaning. There was no phone, computer, or television. It was just me and my journal. I was truly alone, and I felt abandoned. Not only did it conjure up feelings of my childhood, but it foreshadowed what I would feel like if Stephan was gone. I had no one to cry to, and I spent more time sobbing out of loneliness than I did reflecting. There was nothing therapeutic about the experience; I didn’t emerge a different person. I was just relieved not to be alone anymore.
Disastrous trips aside, I love getting away, clearing out the baggage, and searching within myself for clarity, self-acceptance, and self-love. I don’t care about luxury as much as I do about authenticity. I want to experience every interesting thing I can.
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As great as you feel after a spiritual retreat, it’s hard to sustain the benefits. That’s why I love yoga. You can practice it anywhere. When I was in high school, I loved yoga because it was expressive, freeing, and flowing, like dance. I had long legs and loved to stretch them and feel the energy that moved through my body from pose to pose. As time wore on, my practice became spiritual as well as physical. When you’re always working, you need to settle down and find a moment of peace. Everyone thinks it’s all about getting your leg over your head, but it’s much more a communion of mind, body, and spirit. There are lessons to learn over and over, physically and spiritually, which is why it’s called practice.
I practice at Yoga Shanti in Sag Harbor with Rodney Yee and Colleen Saidman Yee. I love the energy of a class. I’m late for everything in life, but never for yoga. I show up and do what I’m told. On the mat, my mind doesn’t wander. I don’t do anything but the pose at hand. It’s such a relief not to think. Despite all my years of practicing, I’m far from the best yogi on the planet. I’m extremely flexible, which is great, but my challenge is one of containment. As in life, I need to learn not to give it all away, to hold on to myself and create a sense of stability. My channels are always open, with energy flowing in and out. It’s depleting to live that way.
Practically speaking, there’s the issue of posture. I’m a very physical designer: My head is always cocked when I work, my hips jutted out to one side or the other. Yoga helps me center and realign my body.
My yoga journey has been long and full of good teachers. In the mid-1970s, when I first moved to the city, I had a teacher who spoke slowly and deliberately, and sounded like my psychiatrist, Dr. Rath, which I found comforting. Once or twice a week he and I would practice in a corner of my bedroom, often with a very young Gabby nearby. Later, I took up Ashtanga yoga with Danny Paradise, who worked with my friends Trudie and Sting. Danny was the textbook yogi: a hippie with long hair and a bandana around his head. Ashtanga is a set series of progressive postures that produce intense internal heat, encouraging sweating and detoxification. Some people call it power yoga. I loved practicing with Danny, but he was a true nomad, always off traveling around the world. Then Gabby turned me on to Jivamukti Yoga, a studio founded by Sharon Gannon and David Life. Gabby was going to New York University and living downtown near the studio on Broadway, and I started going with or without her every Saturday and Sunday. I adore Sharon and David, who trained my current teacher, Colleen.
In Los Angeles, I’ve studied with Tara Lynda Guber, whom I consider the Donna Karan of LA. Like me, she’s out there, and spiritually open to new ideas. Through Tara Lynda, I met Ken “Tesh” Scott, who practiced Contact Yoga, also called partner yoga. I loved the quality of the stretching and how our body weight worked with and against each other. I found Tesh a studio in the Hamptons (a rustic old barn on top of a hill) where he taught me and my friends. I also practiced with Jules Paxton, another yogi versed in both traditional and Contact Yoga. I’d give gift certificates for private sessions with Jules to all my loved ones. Even Gabby was a fan. Despite all my attempts to get Barbra into yoga, and God knows I’ve tried, it doesn’t speak to her the way it does to me. She loves aerobic exercise, Pilates, weight training, and machines. Best friends can’t share everything.
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My spiritual quest intensified in the summer of 1994, thanks to my new friend Pam Serure, the owner of Get Juiced, a juice bar in Bridgehampton. A friend had given me one of Pam’s juice “boxes,” and as soon as I finished it, I called Pam to introduce myself. Anyone who could make juices like that was someone I needed to know. Small and forceful in a New York way, Pam was a natural healer—a “Jewish juicer,” as I called her. She practiced body purification through various channels of detoxing and meditating and offered a whole menu of spiritual and bodywork methodologies, including aromatherapy, dreamwork, journaling, breathwork, and primal screaming. “I need it all,” I told her when we met. “A total reboot. The stress in my life is too much, and it’s affecting my health, my sleep, my everything.”
“Give me three days,” she said. And she meant it. No phone calls, no talking, no interference.
“Can I bring a friend?”
“Of course.”
We created a three-day retreat at my house with my new friend Linda Horn, whom Patti had introduced me to a few months back. Linda is the essence of bohemian chic and was fast becoming my favorite partner in escape. She produced television commercials and was no stranger to stress. And like me, she was up for anything new and adventurous. It helped that Stephan loved her husband, Steve, so we often went out as a foursome.
Our first three-day silent retreat was fabulous. Pam brought the nutrition, the yoga, and other bodyworkers, including an amazing New Zealander named Kamala, who worked on breathing and meditation. We got really into it. We journaled, recorded our dreams, screamed at the waves, and swam nude. We created an altar out of beach rocks and shells. We practiced yoga and got massages. At the end of three silent days, I felt like a new person—I’d stopped the music and tapped into myself in a deep and peaceful way. I was feeling the power of self-care. Linda and I were expected at a fundraising cocktail party that evening. “Bring your juices, you’ll be fine,” Pam said. So off we went, our faces glowing.
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Patti Cohen isn’t woo-woo like me, but she has a real weakness for psychics, astrologists, and card readers. She introduced me to the amazing astrologer and psychic Maria Napoli, wh
o sees things no one else can. I’ve consulted her before hiring almost every senior executive in our company.
Psychics have saved my life, no doubt about it. Once, my fashion director, Peter Speliopoulos, my design associate and “second daughter,” Bonnie Young, and I were headed to Florence, Italy, for a fabric meeting. Right after we took off, the pilot discovered the plane had an electrical problem so we returned to the airport. Both Peter and Bonnie, who was hugely pregnant, wanted to get off, but I felt we should wait out the repair. They grew more and more impatient as the night wore on.
“Donna, I have a child at home and I’m pregnant. I just don’t feel good about this,” Bonnie said.
“Let me call Molly,” I said. It was 2:00 a.m. when I called one of my favorite psychics and gave her the tail number of our plane.
“It’s a bad number right now,” she said. “Don’t fly it under any circumstances.”
The next morning, I called Molly to ask if anything had shifted. It had. “You’re good to go,” she said, so we did.
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While I explored my spiritual side, Stephan worked in his art studio or planned motorcycle trips—anything to avoid my in-home retreats. That’s how we came to buy my “spa house” next door.
At first Barbra thought she wanted to buy it as a Hamptons retreat close to mine. “Let’s go over and see it,” she said excitedly one day.
“But it’s not for sale,” I told her. Besides, I’d never met these neighbors.
“You never know. Let’s go and introduce ourselves.”
So Barbra and I walked over and knocked on the door. A middle-aged woman answered, and we watched the shock register on her face. I tried to break the ice.
“Hi, I’m your neighbor Donna, and this is my friend Barbra. I know this sounds odd, but we were just admiring your house and wondered if we could take a look inside.”
