It feels remarkable when Wendy Williams looks directly into the camera.
She somehow always finds the lens and is ready to pose just so. She is ready with the smirk of someone who knows a secret or has a joke waiting to be fired off.
However, watching Lifetime’s “Where is Wendy Williams?”, I was reminded seconds after one such moment that she is struggling to come to terms with who she is now. It’s difficult to watch Williams––a woman of enormous prominence and personality, full of gossipy celebrity tea and tell-it-like-it-is bravado––reconcile with the idea that no amount of fame and determination will be enough to overcome her health problems.
The four-episode series documents the legendary radio and television host during the two years following the end of “The Wendy Williams Show,” which ran for 14 seasons. Williams was not around for what became the show’s final season in 2022, as she shifted focus to her health. She did not appear in person for the goodbye episode, during which the staff shared a special video tribute to her. In the documentary, Williams attempts to return to the spotlight amid a legal guardianship that has placed a financial hold on her bank accounts and ongoing health issues with alcoholism, lymphedema, and Graves’ Disease. Williams’ care team released a statement ahead of the documentary’s premiere, announcing that the host also has primary progressive aphasia and frontotemporal dementia. This statement proved to be eye-opening for viewers of the documentary, as it becomes clear that Williams has cognitive issues—including difficulty processing and retaining information, remembering people, and responding, as well as mood changes where, in a matter of seconds, she can go from being friendly and warm to angry and dismissive.
Fans have argued on social media that Williams’ medical issues should have been kept private and off-screen, away from cameras. The film crew later told The Hollywood Reporter that they wouldn’t have rolled the cameras had they known Williams has dementia. Still, the documentary forces viewers to confront societal discomfort around what it means to see Black women physically and mentally declining from illness.
The strong Black woman trope has plagued our communities and pop culture for years. Young Black girls grow up to be women socialized and indoctrinated to become the communal, institutional, and systemic backbone for others, no matter how painful it might be for them. Breaking free of these intergenerational demands for strength and minimizing pain or sadness is challenging and often frowned upon. How dare Black women show weakness when the world counts on them to be so strong?
“Where is Wendy Williams?” forces us to reckon with our ideas of what the dignity of decline for Black women should look like—and on whose terms. The reality is that the tears, isolation, loneliness, and gaps in day-to-day care that Williams endures on camera are the norm for many Black women experiencing chronic illness and aging, though with less fame and financial means. It’s frightening to consider that when Black women become sick or elderly, there are systemic, institutional, financial, and community gaps that they will likely fall through. While Williams’ family expresses that they are keen to help her manage her health, we must reckon with how many Black women do not have this support.
When Black women experience physical and mental decline, they can often experience denial in various forms. Denial from family members that it’s happening at all. Denial that they need to see a medical professional. Denial from medical experts that there’s a problem. Denial in the form of being told they can overcome their medical issues with a mind-over-matter sense of resiliency. In the case of Williams, there’s this popular idea that observing her health decline violates her dignity. However, there is power in having the courage to bear witness, if only to consider how to make one’s experience more comfortable and less lonely. The push for keeping medical struggles private can make it more difficult for friends and family to pool resources for support and to destigmatize the realities of chronic illness, aging, and caregiving. The documentary can potentially help people recognize symptoms among their own loved ones.
Suggesting that Williams and other Black women should struggle with health problems privately makes it more challenging for them to ask for help. It also makes it more difficult to identify ways to shore up gaps in services and care. These are not easy conversations to have, given the legal, social, and financial intersections of illness and aging, but they are necessary if we want to make the circumstances less daunting. After all, Williams, in one of the moments where her usual self appears, looks into the camera to tell viewers: “If it could happen to me, it could happen to you.”
Williams has endured a string of events that have arguably depleted her emotionally: divorcing her ex-husband, losing her television show, the death of her mother, the loss of financial independence under guardianship, and ongoing health issues. Williams’ situation is a reminder that Black women can only hold on for so long before the facade of strength and calm crumbles. We never know who or what will break us in this life, but resilience is not always enough to overcome the social taboos of expressing vulnerability.
“How dare Black women show weakness when the world counts on them to be so strong? “Where is Wendy Williams?” forces us to reckon with our ideas of what the dignity of decline for Black women should look like—and on whose terms.”
“Where is Wendy Williams?” is a heartbreaking watch from start to finish. Throughout the episodes, you see a frail Williams often alone in her luxurious home in New York City, with virtually no one but her managers, publicist, and Lifetime’s film crew visiting her. Her family members attempt to stay in touch. One manager checks Williams’ apartment for hidden alcohol and quietly tells restaurant and hotel staff not to bring any liquor to her. The film crew gently tries to assess how she is doing as they film.
Williams has a medical team, but on the show, she does not fully understand why she has them, and she ties their presence to her financial restrictions under the guardianship. (She says she has to see a therapist, “I guess to find out if I’m crazy.”) Still, Williams is left to her own devices. There’s a scene where she has no food in her home, and every time we see Williams requesting or sipping alcohol because no one stopped her, there’s a sinking feeling about what will happen in the next scene. Her family members in Miami––including her father, son, nephew, niece, and siblings––are at a loss for how to help Williams amid a tenuous relationship with her court-appointed guardian. They express their desire to have her in Florida so they can look after her. There are multiple heart-wrenching moments where Williams looks visibly exhausted and in tears as she attempts to reckon with her predicament and craving for social connection.
Some social media users have salivated over Williams’ medical issues, calling them a form of karma for her past words and misdeeds. However, one of the more remarkable parts of Williams’ career has been her willingness to show her own struggles on camera. Throughout her talk show, she didn’t shy away from talking about her drug use, her alcoholism, and her time living in a sober house. The Lifetime documentary is arguably an extension of her openness about her health journey — except this time, viewers are intimately watching her discomfort in real time. While Williams, her family, and Lifetime producers had to make a judgment call about whether to do the documentary, this show will change how we talk about Black women, dementia, chronic illness, guardianships, and caregiving support.
The moments of levity in the documentary occur when glimmers of Williams’ usual public persona appear—when she’s decked out in her wigs, bright pink lipstick, designer clothes, and big sunglasses. She fiercely holds onto memories of the glory days of her talk show and the idea that she’ll be back on screens and airwaves, particularly as she hopes for a podcast. Her desire to return to the spotlight is a gut punch for viewers because it’s clear in the footage Williams is unable to be the unapologetic, bombastic host she once was. But she visibly brightens up when meeting and taking pictures with fans, or when she tells the film crew that she loves having the windows down when she is in a car, hoping someone will recognize her. She seems very much herself during a secret trip to Los Angeles, when she says in no uncertain terms that she doesn’t want a new show to be based there because “all due respect, but New York is much better. More important.” She smirks and runs her fingers down the sides of her wig. You would swear you’re watching her on her show again as she does the motion.
In one of the episodes, Williams visits her hometown of Asbury Park, New Jersey. While the windows the black SUV are rolled down, a group of Black women come up and tell Williams they love her, and she bursts into tears. One of the women makes a point to take Williams’ hand and says, “You are a star to all of us,” and shares that they are praying for her. At that moment, an unspoken acknowledgment of love and support passes between them. It’s an act of care and a show of dignity for Williams that brings tears to her eyes. Williams knows she still has star power, even through the fog of her memories, whether mics or cameras are around.
Related
Black women don’t owe you likability
From entertainment to sports, Black women are cast as unlikeable, aggressive, and threatening. It’s time we stop expecting them to show superhuman strength.
Republish our articles for free, online or in print, under a Creative Commons license.
