Wendy Williams, Without Apology

What one dinner taught me about aging, reinvention and how women are expected to disappear

The first thing I saw was the scooter. Red, with a Louis Vuitton–looking bag hanging off the handlebars like a punchline only Wendy could deliver. Of course. She was easing herself onto the sidewalk in front of Il Cantinori, fur jacket brushing against the wind, paparazzi already circling. There was commotion — figuring out where the scooter should go, how to make an entrance without turning it into a spectacle. But with Wendy, that line doesn’t really exist

She didn’t even see me at first. Too busy managing the scene — the flashes, the cold, the moment. We didn’t really connect until we sat down at the table. That’s when she turned to me, eyes wide, and said,

“Oh my God, Don! I didn’t even notice. I was so focused on getting my scooter settled in with all the cameras out there.”

We laughed, because of course. That’s her — part theater, part thunderstorm, part stillness. Always balancing something.

And she looked good. Her hair had that wet, wavy look — like she’d just walked off a beach shoot. She wore a cropped fur jacket over jean mini shorts, black leggings underneath, and fur boots that gave the whole look its own rhythm. No foundation, just mascara and lipstick. Her skin was glowing — not “celebrity” glowing. Glowing like rest. Like truth. She wasn’t trying to look younger, or smaller, or filtered. She looked like a woman at peace with herself. And no — she’s not overweight. She’s not hiding. She’s not asking for permission to be seen. She just is.

She carried a big black bag — Birkin-adjacent, alligator texture, massive — and somehow still made it feel like an extension of her personality. Not trying too hard. Just Wendy.

We talked like old friends do — about everything and nothing. She told me she wants to start a podcast once she’s free from the conservatorship. Not to reclaim the spotlight. Just to speak. To work a little, but not forever. To do something again on her own terms.

She talked about friendship. About wanting women around her — a crew. Girlfriends. Like Sex and the City, she said. A little laughter, a little loyalty. People who really know you and stay. She’s thinking about reestablishing some old connections, but mostly, she wants to build new ones. She wants to start life again. Not pick up where it left off — begin something different. Something quieter. Something real.

Alec and Hilaria Baldwin stopped by to say hello. The table turned into a moment, like it always does when Wendy’s in the room. But she didn’t perform. She didn’t reach for the spotlight. She just… was. Present. Seated. Still powerful.

This is a different Wendy than the one who sat in the purple chair. A little more pared down. A little more grounded. Still witty. Still watching everything. But softer. Braver, even.

We don’t talk enough about what it means for women — especially women in the spotlight — to age on their own terms. To be seen without being picked apart. There’s this outdated idea that if you’re not chasing youth, you’re letting yourself go. But what if you’re just… letting yourself be?

And what if you’re doing all that while the whole world knows your story — your addiction, your heartbreak, your mental health struggles? What if you’ve had to heal while headlines were still being written about your lowest moments?

Wendy isn’t performing perfection anymore. She’s living her truth. With mascara and lipstick, yes — but also with clarity. With skin that glows from rest, not retouching. With no apologies for the weight, the years, the headlines, or the hard days.

This isn’t a comeback. It’s a reclamation. It’s not about returning to the woman she used to be. It’s about becoming the woman she never got to be before — on her own terms, in her own time.

And if you ask me — that might be the most powerful Wendy we’ve seen yet.