A Quote by Suze Orman

When someone chooses to value herself over the things she can buy, true transformation begins. — © Suze Orman
When someone chooses to value herself over the things she can buy, true transformation begins.
There are things that a woman sings, and only a woman knows the full meaning. You may sing for men as well as for women, but only a woman knows your full meaning. I am not a feminista. I only think a woman should be true to who she believes herself to be. Or who she wants herself to be. Or who she imagines herself to be. I don't know what I mean, or whether I'm true myself to any of that. I don't think there are many of us who are true to our possibilities.
She's true to herself and she's determined. She has things going against her, but she forges ahead despite all of that. I think that's encouraging. She's got some problems, but she has hope and tries to plow through things. I think that's a good role model.
Someone who I would consider an ultimate beauty and style icon would be Jennifer Lopez. She is absolutely ageless, and she has reinvented herself so many times throughout the years and yet is absolutely flawless and stays true to herself.
The new female is competent in all that she chooses. She chooses whatever her heart tells her. She can create a business, lead a country, drive a truck, hammer nails, deliver mail, or raise a family. She is at home in every social and physical environment. She can be a housewife, if she chooses. She can be anything else, too. She is intuitive and heart centered. She is all that a female has been, and more.
My older sister is a working mom. She's busy. She chooses to spend money on her children. But she should be able to afford a good shoe for herself.
She sits in the driveway, freezing, for thirty-six minutes. Arguing with herself. Because she thinks she's in love with him too. And there are two ways she can be a fool in love right now. She chooses the harder one. And knocks on the door.
She stared at herself in the mirror. Her eyes were dark, almost black, filled with pain. She'd let someone do that to her. She'd known all along she felt things too deeply. She became attached. She didn't want a lover who could walk away from her, because she could never do that - love someone completely and survive intact if her left her.
The definition of a true friend is not someone who swoops in when you're going through a rough patch. True friendship is when someone can appreciate your happiness - celebrate your happiness, even when she's not necessarily happy herself.
She didn't know how to love, to give herself to someone, to out herself in someone else's keeping and take him into hers. She didn't trust anyone with her heart - or the darker places of her soul.
I think I look for a muse in women. Someone I can just picture in my mind. Someone who respects herself and others. It isn't so much the things she says, it's mainly what she does. That's what make her all the more beautiful.
It's about waking up. A child wakes up over and over again, and notices that she's living. She dreams along, loving the exuberant life of the senses, in love with beauty and power, oblivious to herself -- and then suddenly, bingo, she wakes up and feels herself alive. She notices her own awareness. And she notices that she is set down here, mysteriously, in a going world.
True generosity must benefit both parties. No woman can control her destiny if she doesn't give to herself as much as she gives of herself.
All through the night, she battled herself. Or battled to know herself. She fell apart and then put herself back together and then she fell apart again and put herself back together, over and over.
She emptied herself of Fabio and of herself, of all the useless efforts she had made to get where she was and find nothing there. With detached curiosity she observed the rebirth of her weaknesses, her obsessions. This time she would let them decide, since she hadn't been able to do anything anyway. Against certain parts of yourself you remain powerless, she said to herself, as she regressed pleasurably to the time when she was a girl.
My mother’s been living alone for over ten years. She gets up at six every morning. She makes herself a coffee. She waters her plants. She listens to the news on the radio. She drinks her coffee. She has a quick wash. An hour later, at seven, her day is over. Two months ago a neighbour told her about your blog, and she asked me to buy her one of those thingummyjigs – by a thingummyjig she meant a computer. And since then, thanks to your trimmings, your ribbon bows, your tie-backs for curtains, she’s rediscovered the joys of life. So don’t tell me you don’t know any answers.
That was what her parents did not understand—and had never understood—about stories. Liza told herself storied as though she was weaving and knotting an endless rope. Then, no matter how dark or terrible the pit she found herself in, she could pull herself out, inch by inch and hand over hand, on the long rope of stories.
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