She was one of the most photographed women of the 20th century. A single image of her standing in a fur bikini on a film set in 1966 became one of the bestselling posters in history. Men wanted to be near her. Hollywood wanted to own her and four different men across four different decades married her.
None of those marriages lasted. And the reasons why, the real reasons behind each one, are more complicated, more painful, and more human than any headline ever managed to capture. This is the tragic story of Raquel Welch’s four husbands. The girl behind the image. Before there was a sex symbol, before there was a poster, before there was even a name that anyone recognized, there was a girl growing up in San Diego who didn’t quite fit into any single category and who spent most of her life quietly navigating the tension that created. She was born Joe Raquel Tahada on September 5th, 1940 in Chicago, Illinois. Her father, Armando Carlos Tahada, was a Bolivian aerospace engineer who had come to the United
States to build a life. Her mother, Josephine Hall, was Irish American with roots she traced back to the Mayflower. When Raquel was 2 years old, the family relocated to San Diego, California, and that city, sunny, laid-back, shaped by the military and the Pacific Ocean, became the backdrop for her entire childhood.
The household she grew up in was comfortable, but complicated by something that never got fully discussed. Her father, aware of the discrimination that Latin Americans faced in mid-century America, made a deliberate choice to assimilate as completely as possible. He refused to speak Spanish at home. The family did not practice the cultural traditions that had shaped his own upbringing in Bolivia.
He believed this erasia was necessary, a way of protecting his children from the prejudice he had personally encountered. Raquel understood this later in life, speaking about her father with both empathy and sadness. He suffered, she said. The prejudice against Latinos at the time was real and damaging, and his response was to try to make his family invisible to it.
But the cost of that invisibility was a piece of herself that she spent decades trying to reclaim. She was a beautiful child and a driven one. By 14, she had won local pageant titles, Miss Photogenic, Miss Contour. And at La Hoya High School, she added Miss La Hoya, and then Miss San Diego.
She started ballet at seven and trained seriously for a decade, only to be told at 17 by her instructor that she simply did not have the body type that professional ballet companies were looking for. It was a setback she never entirely forgot. The first time she was told that her appearance, the very thing that was supposed to be her advantage, didn’t fit the frame someone else had built.
She was bright, ambitious, and deeply curious about performance. When her ballet instructor told her at 17 that her build wasn’t right for professional companies, she didn’t walk away from performing. She redirected. She enrolled at San Diego State College on a theater arts scholarship with genuine intentions of pursuing a career on stage or screen.
The scholarship was built on demonstrated talent, not just her looks. She worked on her craft. She imagined a future that had more to do with what she could do than how she appeared. And then James Welch walked into her life and the future she had been building for herself quietly stepped aside. James Welch, the sweetheart who wasn’t enough.
Jim Welch was her high school sweetheart, the kind of relationship that forms in the particular house atmosphere of youth, where being seen together everyday and sharing inside jokes can feel indistinguishable from deep compatibility. In her 2010 memoir, Raquel, Beyond the Cleavage, she wrote about how completely infatuated she was during those years, so absorbed by her feelings for Jim that she could barely concentrate on her classes.
She described being lit up whenever she saw him, chattering excitedly, completely inside her own romantic world. What she also acknowledged, looking back with the perspective of decades, was that she and Jim had very little genuinely in common beyond the feeling itself. He was quiet, where she was expressive.
He was settled where she was restless. The infatuation had been real, but the foundation it was built on was narrower than she had understood at the time. They married young and fast. On May 8th, 1959, Raquel and James Welch tied the knot in Las Vegas shortly after she had left high school. And while she was still enrolled at San Diego State on her theater arts scholarship, she was 18 years old.
Her father, Armando, did not approve of the marriage or the timing. But Raquel had already made up her mind, and she was not the kind of woman who waited for anyone’s permission before doing the thing she had decided to do. The consequences of the early marriage arrived quickly. By the time she was 21, Raquel was the mother of two children.
Her son Damon was born in 1959, the same year as the wedding. Her daughter Tarnney followed in 1961. Both children came before Raquel had done anything professionally before she had tested the ambitions she had carried since childhood, before she had any real idea whether the performing career she had dreamed of was even possible for someone in her situation.
She had dropped out of college to get married and now found herself managing a household, raising two small children, and living with the growing awareness that the life she had chosen and the life she had imagined were pulling in opposite directions. The gap between them was not yet unbearable, but it was there, and it grew wider.
She was a young mother with no income, a marriage that was losing its energy, and a talent she hadn’t yet had the chance to use. The couple separated in 1962. The divorce was finalized in 1964. In interviews over the years, Raquel spoke about that first marriage with a particular kind of regret. Not regret that it had happened, but regret at how she had handled the end of it.
She said more than once that she believed James Welch was the best of her four husbands. He was decent and kind. She said the problem wasn’t him. The problem was that she had been too young to understand what she had, too eager for something larger. And by the time the marriage ended, she had already decided that the life waiting for her in Hollywood was more important than putting in the harder work of building something with what she had already started.
It was a conclusion that cost her in ways she felt for years. not just the end of the marriage itself, but the daily presence of her children’s father that was lost with it, and the particular kind of stability she might have chosen differently had she been even a few years older when it all began.
She packed up Damon and Tanny and moved first to Dallas, Texas, where she cobbled together a living modeling for Nean Marcus and working as a cocktail waitress. She was doing whatever it took to keep herself and her children housed and fed while she figured out the next step. The dream at that point was still New York, a stage career, something that would finally use the talent she knew she had. But her savings were stolen.
And with $200 left in her bank account and two young children depending entirely on her, she changed direction and drove west toward Los Angeles instead. She was 23 years old. She had two children, no industry connections, and one of the most striking faces anyone in Hollywood had ever seen. She was about to meet the man who would figure out exactly what to do with that fact and whose plan would in the process become the most complicated chapter of her personal life.
Patrick Curtis, the man who built her and the price of it. Patrick Curtis was not a glamorous figure in 1963 when Raquel first encountered him in Hollywood. He had grown up in the industry. As an infant, he had appeared as Baby Bo Wilks in Gone with the Wind in 1939. His uncle was director Billy Wilder, but his own acting ambitions had never materialized.
He had shifted into the business side of things, working as an agent and producer, and had developed a sharp eye for the machinery that made stars rather than the talent required to become one. When he met Raquel, he saw something he recognized as marketable on a significant scale. He offered to become her personal manager and helped devise a strategy for how she would be presented to the industry.
His first and most consequential piece of advice was about her name. Raquel’s Bolivian surname, Thiada, was an obvious identifier of her Latin heritage. And in the early 1960s, Hollywood routinely typcast Latin actresses in narrow limiting roles. Curtis advised her to keep the surname from her first marriage instead.
She remained Raquel Welch rather than Joe Raquel Tiardada. Executives even pushed her to change the first name, too, suggesting something softer and more Anglo sounding. Debbie Welch was reportedly floated. She refused that part. Raquel was non-negotiable. That name was the last piece of herself she was willing to give up.
It was a painful compromise that she acknowledged years later had left her with a sense of psychological incompleteness. A feeling of not quite knowing who she was, of having built a public identity on a name that was half someone else’s. Under Curtis’s management, her career began to move with remarkable speed.
She appeared in small television roles in 1964, episodes of Bewitched, McCale’s Navy, The Virginia. In 1965, she appeared in the beach film A Swinging Summer, her first featured film role. It was on the set of that production that her working relationship with Curtis deepened into something personal.
The two began a romance while building a career together, which is the kind of arrangement that has built many Hollywood relationships and destroyed just as many. Then 1966 arrived and changed everything. She appeared first in Fantastic Voyage, a big budget science fiction film in which she played a scientist who shrinks to microscopic size.
The film was a genuine Hollywood production, technically ambitious, widely released, and it attracted enough attention to her presence that 20th Century Fox signed her to a long-term contract. Fox then loaned her to the British studio Hammer Films for a prehistoric adventure called 1 Million Years, BC.
She had only three lines of dialogue in the entire film. What she had was a two-piece deerkin bikini, a windswept shoreline, and a presence in front of the camera that the lens could not look away from. A publicity still of her standing on the shore in that costume became one of the bestselling posters in history.
It was described at the time as mankind’s first bikini, and the image circulated so widely, so immediately that within months, Raquel Welch had become an international sensation. She hated being reduced to it. In interview after interview over the following years, she pushed back on the notion that the poster was her achievement.
She said the crappy material she was offered in those years wasn’t what she had chosen. She had no control. She found it frightening, she said, that a single image could define a person so completely while all the actual work she was doing existed in its shadow. But the poster was the reality she was working within, and Curtis had put her there deliberately.
He understood the machinery of celebrity in a way that few people in early 1960s Hollywood matched, and he ran it with considerable effectiveness. Even as the woman at the center of it felt less like a beneficiary than a product, she and Curtis married on February 14th, 1967, Valentine’s Day, at the city hall in Paris.
The timing was not incidental. She was at the peak of her initial wave of fame, and Paris was where they happened to be. The wedding itself was a spectacle. Paparazzi followed her through the streets as she tried to buy a wedding dress. Photographers attempted to force their way into the ceremony. Actor Danny Kay threw a reception for them afterward, attended by Peter Oul, Mia Faroh, and Christopher Plameumber.
It was glamorous, chaotic, and photographed at every turn, which was by this point simply the reality of being Raquel Welch. The marriage and the professional relationship were completely entangled from the beginning, and that entanglement was never fully resolved. Curtis ran her career with a controlling hand.
He told a journalist from the Saturday Evening Post in 1967 that if anyone wanted to deal with Raquel, they dealt with him, that he pushed the buttons and was in control of the situation. He described this as a professional arrangement that benefited them both. What it looked like from inside the relationship was something that Raquel eventually found unbearable.
They formed a joint production company called Kurtwell Enterprises, which gave both of them financial stakes in her film projects. Curtis produced several of her movies during this period, including Hannie Calder in 1971, in which she played a revenge-seeking widow who learns to shoot in order to confront the men who destroyed her life.
He was present on sets constantly, involved in contract negotiations, shaping decisions around her image and her roles at every level. He was effective by certain measures. Under his management, her fees had risen from $500 a week for small parts to as much as $20,000 a day for high-profile European productions.
Her contract specified limousines, personal hairdressers, aironditioned trailers, and the right to veto any photographs she found unflattering. But the contracts and the money were his accomplishments as her manager. What happened to her as a performer was something more complicated. She was being booked into roles designed almost entirely around what she looked like in limited clothing, and the sheer quantity of material produced in that vein made it increasingly difficult to demonstrate that she was capable of anything else. She described it with frustration in later years, saying she had no control over the material, that it was frightening how thoroughly one image had come to define the entire public understanding of her. She was a performer who had trained since childhood, had studied theater arts, had a genuine range, and she was being
deployed as a walking advertisement for something she had barely agreed to become. The personal dimension of the marriage added another layer of difficulty. The lines between her manager and her husband had never been properly drawn, and as her fame grew, the power Curtis held over her professional life made the domestic relationship increasingly strained.
She later described feeling manipulated and controlled during the marriage. She said there had been infidelity on his part and that the relationship had become genuinely unhappy in its final years. The specific chronology of the unraveling is not entirely clear from the public record. What is clear is that the two people who had entered into a marriage and a business partnership simultaneously found by the early 1970s that neither structure was working anymore. They separated in 1971.
The divorce was finalized on January 6th, 1972. Patrick Curtis went on to marry twice more. He died on November 24th, 2022 at the age of 83, just under 3 months before Raquel herself died in February 2023. The two of them had known each other for nearly 60 years by that point, had been through the most formative and turbulent years of her career together, and then had lived the remainder of their lives separately.
Whatever the marriage had cost them both, it had also produced something. The international celebrity of Raquel Welch was, at least partly, a project they had built together. Whether that was worth the price she paid for, it was a question she continued to turn over for the rest of her life.
After the divorce, Raquel was free professionally for the first time in years. And what she did with that freedom was striking. Without Curtis determining the shape of her career, she began pushing into roles that had nothing to do with the image he had spent years constructing. She played a professional roller derby skater in Kansas City Bomber in 1972.
An emotionally demanding performance that let her show a rougher, more physical side of herself. She won a Golden Globe in 1974 for her comedic performance in the Three Musketeers. She starred in the controversial Myra Breenidge. She proved to the people who had been paying attention that there was far more to her than a fur bikini and a poster.
And she was doing all of it alone, navigating Hollywood without a manager husband, raising her two children, and quietly proving herself on her own terms. She won a Golden Globe in 1974 for her genuinely funny comedic turn in The Three Musketeers, a role she reprised in the sequel the following year.
She played a professional roller derby skater in Kansas City Bomber, a physically demanding role that required real training and earned serious reviews for the first time. Directors and writers who worked with her during this period consistently described a woman who was far more disciplined and technically capable than the industry had bothered to discover while it was busy marketing her body.
The problem consistently was that the studios kept seeing the poster rather than the person. The next chapter of her personal life would wait several years, and when it arrived, it came not in Los Angeles, but in Paris, in the company of a man who seemed, at least for a while, to understand something about her that the industry never fully had.
Andre Weinfeld, The Happy Marriage That Couldn’t Cross an Ocean. In 1977, while in Paris on professional business, Raquel met a French filmmaker and screenwriter named Andre Weinfeld. He was a different kind of man from either Jim Welch or Patrick Curtis. Where Jim had been the boy next door she had outgrown and Patrick had been the operator who had built her and then tried to own her, Andre was an intellectual educated at the prestigious Lay Lou and the Sorbon in Paris, fluent in multiple worlds, comfortable navigating Paris and New York and Hollywood with equal ease. He had a creative life that was genuinely his own. He wasn’t building a career through proximity to her fame. He was a filmmaker with his own work and his own standing. The French press, in their
particular way, dubbed the couple Beauty and the Beast, a description that Weinfeld took with enough grace to later call himself the champion, for lasting longer in the marriage than any of the other three husbands. He was willing to move to Los Angeles to be with her, which was itself a significant statement about the seriousness of his intentions.
He had a life in Paris and New York that he was adjusting to accommodate her. He was not looking to subsume himself into her career. He had his own identity and expected her to have hers. They collaborated professionally almost from the beginning, which was a familiar dynamic for Raquel by now, but one that with Andre seemed to function as partnership rather than control.
Their first joint project was from Raquel with love, a 1980 television variety special that featured Raquel in musical and comedic sketches alongside Mickey Rooney. They married that same year. the ceremony held in Cabo San Lucas, Mexico, with Robert Mitchum stopping by the hotel reception because, as Raquel put it, he simply happened to be there.
It was a typically unusual footnote to a Raquel Welch event. Andre also co-produced Woman of the Year on Broadway in 1981, which had opened with Lauren Beall in the lead role. When Belell went on a planned vacation and needed a temporary replacement, Raquel stepped in. The critical response genuinely surprised people who hadn’t been following her career carefully.
The reviews were warm, even enthusiastic, and she demonstrated a theatrical ease and a comedic timing that Broadway audiences found entirely unexpected. She had never been given that kind of material in Hollywood, and here she was, thriving in it. She returned to Broadway in 1997 for Victor/Victoria, which only reinforced that her talent had never actually been the problem.
The problem had always been how the industry chose to package and deploy it. By all external accounts, the Weinfeld marriage was the most genuinely happy of her four. Weinfeld himself described it that way in later years. a real partnership, a real life together. Two people who liked each other and built something that worked.
The ending, when it came in 1990, after 10 years, was not driven by infidelity or control, or the kind of accumulated grievances that had broken her earlier marriages. It came from something considerably more benal and considerably more difficult to fight, geography. As the years passed, their lives began to pull in different physical directions.
Raquel was drawn back to Los Angeles, to the city where her career had been built and where she felt most at home. Andre remained in New York and Paris. They tried to maintain the marriage across those distances, different cities, different time zones, different daily routines. But eventually the logistics of separation defeated what the feeling between them could not.
They divorced in 1990. Weinfeld speaking to a magazine in 2015 talked about the marriage without apparent bitterness, but with something that had the quality of wistfulness, a warmth toward what they had shared, followed by the observation that she had promised to sail into the sunset with him, and he could see she had not managed it since she went on to marry again.
He called himself the champion, the one who lasted longest. There was humor in it, but not entirely. Raquel, for her part, described all four marriages in consistent terms when she talked about them. She had real feelings for all of them. She didn’t dismiss any relationship as a mistake.
At the same time, she was honest about the pattern she could see looking back. Whenever she and her husband went anywhere together, she was the one people focused on. She was the name. She was the face. She was Raquel Welch. Not all men could find a comfortable way to inhabit that situation for long without it becoming a source of friction.
There was a 7-year gap between the Weinfeld divorce in 1990 and the beginning of her fourth and final marriage. seven years in which she kept working, maintained her image with a discipline that people in Hollywood found almost legendary. Fitness videos, health books, a relentless physical commitment that defied conventional expectations of aging and lived independently in the way that suited her.
Richard Palmer, the final chapter. She was 58 years old when she met Richard Palmer at a party in Los Angeles in 1996. He was from the Bronx, a New York-born restaurant who had built a small empire of New Yorkstyle pizzeras, starting with his first location in New Rashelle in 1985. By 2000, he owned multiple restaurants across Southern California, including locations in Beverly Hills and in Cino, with another in the works near Denver.
He was not from the entertainment world. He was not a filmmaker or a producer or a manager. He was a man who had built something real and practical with his own hands, who liked boxing matches and good food and the company of interesting people and who happened to meet Raquel Welch at a party and found that she liked him back.
They dated for three years before marrying in a small private ceremony at her Beverly Hills home in 1999. The contrast with her second wedding, the Valentine’s Day chaos in a Paris city hall, paparazzi fighting through the doors, Danny Kay throwing a reception attended by Peter Oul and Mia Pharaoh.
Could hardly have been more deliberate. This was a quiet ceremony in a private home with people who knew them. She had earned the right to something simple. Palmer’s public comments about being married to Raquel were cheerful and disarming in a way that was both endearing and perhaps quietly revealing of the imbalance. When the New York Post wrote about him in 2000, he described his wife as a living legend and enumerated the perks with genuine enthusiasm.
great seats at the fights, access to places you wouldn’t otherwise go, being attached to a name that opened every door. He seemed genuinely happy in the marriage, but the way he framed it as an experience that came with excellent benefits, suggested that the asymmetry between who they were publicly was something he noticed and appreciated rather than something he navigated.
Raquel in 1999 was still very much a working and visible person. She had released a widely successful fitness video series, had written about health and physical discipline, and had maintained an appearance that attracted genuine fascination rather than mere nostalgia. She was not coasting.
She was still actively presenting a version of herself to the world that required real effort and real commitment to sustain. But the fourth marriage ran into the same fundamental difficulty that had surfaced in different forms in all three of the previous ones. The disparity between who she was in any public space and who her husband was.
They separated in 2003 and the divorce was finalized in 2004. After that she was done. She said so clearly and she kept her word. She was too set in her ways. She said too independent, too self-motivated. She loved men and appreciated their company, but she did not need one. And she had found through four genuine attempts spanning four decades that the institution of marriage and the particular life she had built were extremely difficult to hold together at the same time.
She was not going to make a fifth attempt. What she said about all of it. In the years after her final divorce, Raquel Welch talked about her marriages with a cander that was neither bitter nor particularly self-pittitying. What she offered in various interviews over the following two decades was the perspective of someone who had genuinely tried four separate times across four separate decades and had arrived at the end of it at an honest reckoning with what she had found.
She told Piers Morgan in 2015 on his television program Life Stories that she had never gotten it right. She had real feelings for all four men. At the time of each marriage, she believed it was love and that they could build something lasting together, but it hadn’t been in the cards, she said.
Looking back, she did not describe herself as a victim of any of the men she had married. She described herself as someone who had found over four attempts that her own nature and the nature of the institution were not well matched. The theme that came up most consistently in her reflections was the imbalance of attention.
When she and any of her husbands went somewhere together, she was the one people saw. The focus followed her everywhere into every room at every event. Some men could absorb that gracefully, could find a way to stand beside someone whose fame occupied every available inch of any space they shared. Others over time found it more difficult than they had anticipated when they first said yes. She was not blaming them for that.
She was describing a reality that she understood thoroughly by the time she was done with it. She acknowledged that she had repeated certain patterns without fully understanding them while she was inside them. The choice of Patrick Curtis, a man who built her career and controlled the process, echoed something from her earliest years.
Her father had managed the family’s public identity carefully. He had decided how they would present themselves had shaped the performance of who they were in order to protect them from the discrimination he had experienced. The dynamic between Raquel and Curtis in which a man held authority over her image and her access to the world replicated something familiar even as it damaged her.
It took the pain of the marriage’s end for her to see it clearly. The identity question, the name, the heritage, the tahada that became Welch, stayed with her all her life. In a recording later featured in the documentary I am Raquel Welch, she described a sense of incompleteness, a part of herself that had been missing since childhood, a psychological feeling of not knowing who she fully was.
The refusal to change her first name from Raquel to something more Anglo sounding and palatable to studio executives had been her one firm line. Everything else could be negotiated. The surname, the hair, the image, the careful erasure of the Tahada heritage, but the first name stayed. Raquel stayed because that name was the last visible tether to who she actually was.
And she knew even at 23 years old in the offices of Hollywood Studios that giving it up would mean giving up something that could not be recovered. She remained close to her children Damon and Tarnney throughout her life. Tarnie Welch went on to have her own acting career, most notably appearing in Cocoon in 1985 and drawing considerable attention for her own striking presence on screen.
Both children carried their father’s surname, the same surname their mother had built her entire public identity upon. There was something quietly circular about that, a name that had passed from a first husband through a famous ex-wife and into the next generation, connecting people who had once been a family across five decades of separate lives.
In her later years, Raquel also spoke about the dimension of her story that had been most invisible to the outside world during the height of her fame. Her Latina identity, the Bolivian father, who had refused to speak Spanish at home, the culture that had been deliberately suppressed in the name of survival and assimilation.
She described her father’s choice with understanding, but not without sadness. He had suffered, she said. He had made the only choice that seemed available to him at the time. And that choice had cost them both something. The part of herself that was Tajada, that was Bolivia.
That was the heritage her father had come from. She spent the second half of her life finding ways to acknowledge it openly rather than explain it away. The final years. In the last decade and a half of her life, Raquel Welch was largely retired from the screen. But she remained a figure of real cultural fascination. Someone people continued to pay attention to, not simply because of what she had been, but because of how she had aged, how she had continued to present herself, and what she had chosen to say publicly about her own story. Her final film role came in 2017 in How to be a Latin lover, a piece of casting that carried its own quiet symbolism. The woman who had spent 60 years managing the tension between her Bolivian heritage and her American career, finally appearing in a film that embraced rather than erased where she
came from. It was a small but pointed full circle. She had been honored by the Imaran Foundation with a lifetime achievement award in 2001 and received the recognition again in 2015 for her positive portrayal of Latin Americans in the entertainment industry. The recognition mattered to her in ways that the Early Glamour Awards had not because it acknowledged a dimension of her identity that Hollywood had spent most of her career asking her to set aside.
She received a star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame in 1996 at the address of 7,021 Hollywood Boulevard, a tangible marker on the street of the city that had made her and that she had spent decades pushing back against. She was a woman of faith throughout her life, a lifelong Presbyterian who attended a small congregation in Glendale, California.
She described the community there with genuine warmth in interviews, noting that the people were not Hollywood types. They were modest, cheerful, and welcoming, and that quality meant something to her after a lifetime spent in the entertainment industry’s particular social atmosphere. She published her memoir Raquel Beyond the Cleavage in 2010 and the title alone said something about what she wanted the record to reflect.
The cleavage had been the thing the world focused on. What lay beyond it? The childhood in San Diego. The Bolivian father who would not speak Spanish. The theater arts scholarship. The two children left at home while she drove west toward a career. The four marriages and what each one had taught her was the part she wanted people to understand.
Raquel Welch died on February 15th, 2023 at her home in Los Angeles. She was 82 years old. Her family confirmed she had passed away from a brief illness and it was later reported that she had also been living with Alzheimer’s disease in her final years. She was not married at the time of her death and had not been since her divorce from Richard Palmer nearly 20 years earlier.
She left behind her two children, Damon and Tarnney, and several grandchildren. The image most people carry of her, the one from 1966, the fur bikini, the windswept shore, remains one of the most reproduced photographs of the 20th century. It is an image she had complicated feelings about for most of her life.
It made her famous overnight and then spent the following decades being the first and often only thing people reached for when her name came up, even as she worked steadily to demonstrate that she was considerably more than it. What she actually was in full was a woman who had climbed out of a constrained beginning, a San Diego childhood where her heritage was a secret kept for her own protection.
A teenage marriage, two children, and $200 in a car, heading toward an uncertain life, and built something extraordinary. She had sacrificed pieces of her identity to do it and spent the second half of her life quietly reclaiming them. She had married four times with genuine feeling and had never quite found what she was looking for in that particular form of connection, but she had found by the end a clarity about herself that seemed like it had been a long time coming.
She once said she enjoyed being herself, that she made a good living at it, that she was happy, and that she didn’t have to have a man. She meant it. If you enjoyed this video, please like and subscribe to our channel so you never miss out on more fascinating stories.
