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I’M PROUD OF THIS BOOK, truly, because of what it means to me. And hopefully, what it will mean to you.
I knew from the outset that if I was going to write a memoir, it had to include more than the shade of blue I chose for a china pattern or who was or wasn’t invited to a State Dinner. Those are parts of my story, yes, but to be honest, they aren’t very important parts. And I had no interest in using a memoir to settle scores or win a few news cycles, because I don’t care about any of that, either.
What I do care about, what I’ve always cared about, is going deeper to unearth the fullness of our stories, blemishes and all. I know that I am who I am not because of the titles I’ve held or the celebrities I’ve met, but because of the snaking paths and winding roads, the frustrations and contradictions, the constant growth that is painful and joyful and full of confusion. So I knew that if this book was going to make any difference at all, it would need to be raw, vulnerable, and unabashedly honest.
And, as a Black woman, all of that was even more important. For the better part of our history, Black women’s stories have either gone untold or been told by others—by those who haven’t walked in our shoes and sometimes by those who haven’t even cared to imagine what it might feel like to do so. That’s why it was crucial for me to tell, in my own words and on my own terms, not just the story of the first Black First Lady, but also the story of a little Black girl who studied hard, became a lawyer, and fell in love; the story of a Black woman raising children, building a career, and staying afloat amid a tumultuous world. There is great beauty within every Black woman’s story, whether or not we ever become First Lady.
For me, embracing that beauty meant reflecting on my entire history, not just the major events and milestones, but the broader historical and societal context swirling along the way. And I found great joy in rediscovering the tiniest details that I’d long brushed aside: the fresh smell of cleaning products on a spring day, the natural ease with which my grandfather kept the record player humming on a Saturday afternoon, the sound of ice scraped off a windshield on a frozen Chicago morning. While sometimes I think about the stories in this book and wonder if they’re too small or trivial, what I’ve learned and re-learned throughout this process is that these moments may in fact be the most important parts of our stories. These years-old sensory recollections, these dusty emotional bursts can split time in two, overlaying who we are atop who we were. It’s that experience—seeing at once the present and the past, the outlines still visible beneath the parchment—that for me was profoundly meaningful, opening up a radiance within my own story I hadn’t noticed before.
This isn’t to say any of this was easy, particularly the experience of baring this truest version of myself for the entire world to accept or leave behind. In fact, the night before this book first went on sale—after all the chapters had been written, all the copies printed and bound and placed on shelves—I woke up in a panic. The following evening, I was scheduled to discuss my memoir with Oprah Winfrey in front of 14,000 people in a professional basketball arena, an event that would kick off a worldwide tour. I laid awake anxious in my bed, worried that these little stories couldn’t bear the enormous load.
What if the book just isn’t any good? What if people hate it? Or what if they just don’t care at all?
My husband stays up much later than me, and thankfully, he was still awake when my fears came to visit and wouldn’t leave. I crawled out of bed, put my slippers on, and went down to talk with him. Maybe the tour wasn’t a very smart idea, I told him. Maybe the book will flop. Barack put his arms around me and placed his forehead on mine. “It’s good, Miche,” he told me. “It really is.”
At this point I’d spent eight years as First Lady of the United States. I’d done more interviews than I could count and given more speeches than I can remember. Oprah Winfrey wasn’t some high-powered moderator, she was my friend.
But the doubts never leave us for good. We all have our tender spots, and our instinct is to keep them protected.
This book affirmed within me the value in bucking against that instinct, in stepping into our fears. It’s where the greatest truths come from—the understanding of what matters and what doesn’t, the ability to let go of the things that too often hold us down, the acceptance of ourselves and a belief in our own promise.
I hope that as you read my story, you’ll reflect on your own—every one of your bumps and bruises, each of your successes and bursts of laughter. And then I hope you’ll share that story, all of it, especially the most tender spots. Because that’s how we all can keep becoming.
Michelle Obama
December 2020