There is no perfect love - that's something I'm very realistic about.

The bickering and fighting and hating that women do with each other - it's going to kill us as a race of people.

You've just got to follow your own path. You have to trust your heart and you have to listen to the warnings.

It's time for those of us who have a voice to speak out for life, for love and for justice using the same media we've used throughout our careers.

When I was in my twenties, it felt like I was riding wild horses, and I was hoping I didnt go over a cliff.

As you get older, though, you realize there are fire extinguishers. You do have an ability to control the flames.

But really, we also need to learn how to love one another as women. How to appreciate and respect each other.

I want to give some positive messages and to empower some people.

I'd been in a vicious cycle and circle of people and couldn't see my way out. So I picked myself up one day about 15 years ago and moved where I didn't know anyone.

Painted faces, sun burnt skin, fixed expressions, smiles worn thin.

I'm a woman and I'm a backbone...everybody needs one.

The character of good men and women encourage others to want to be better people.

Release your past into the universe and embrace your future with opened arms.

I had concussions as a kid playing football and basketball, and know what it feels like and to have someone say 'Just rub some dirt on it, and get back in there.'

Action is a high road to self-confidence and esteem. Where it is open, all energies flow toward it. It comes readily to most people, and its rewards are tangible.

Who listens to golfers? They're boring. If I want to wear camouflage on the golf course during a tournament, I will. And I have.

What originally led us to serve others by leading them seldom remains our North Star.

Music is like a mirror in front of you. You're exposing everything, but surely that's better than suppressing.

Something you hear a lot is that feminism dead. But if feminism is dead, why do people try so hard to kill it?

Out of the cradle endlessly rocking, Out of the mocking bird's throat, the musical shuttle, . . . . A reminiscence sing.