At 89, Robert Redford Finally Reveals Who He Loved Most 

I feel that that I have been really blessed as a as a person in my profession. It’s profession that it’s a killer profession. It can be cruel. It can be almost inhuman like like a lot of other strong professions. It it certainly has its dark side. If you would ask me this question when I was a younger man, I probably would have smiled, changed the subject, and talked about another film instead.

 Hollywood taught me very early that people loved a good story, but they loved a mystery even more. So, I let many parts of my life remain exactly that, a mystery. I spent decades allowing people to believe they already knew me because they had watched me on a movie screen. They saw confidence where there was uncertainty.

 They saw success where there had been sacrifice. They saw a leading man, but very few ever met the man behind the camera. As the years passed, I realized something that fame can never replace. Awards gather dust. Box office records are eventually broken. Even the greatest performances slowly become part of history.

 But, the people who truly shape your life never disappear. They stay with you through every sunrise, every difficult decision, every joyful memory, and every quiet evening when the applause has long faded away. Looking back now, I do not measure my life by the films I made or the red carpets I walked. I measure it by the people who gave me courage when I doubted myself, who reminded me who I was before Hollywood ever knew my name, and who stood beside me when cameras were nowhere to be found.

 Some loved me without asking for anything in return. Some challenged me until I became a better man. Some broke my heart in ways that still echo after all these years. Every one of them left a mark that time could never erase. People have often assumed they already knew who mattered most to me. The magazines made their guesses.

The headlines created their own versions of my life. Sometimes they were close. Most of the time they were completely wrong. Tonight, I want to tell the story my own way. Not through gossip, not through rumors, just honest memories from a man who has lived a long life, made more mistakes than he ever admitted, and learned that love is not measured by how long someone stays beside you.

 It is measured by how deeply they change the person you become. These are the five people I loved most, and why each of them will always remain part of my story. The first person I have to talk about is someone many people expected me to mention, but perhaps not this early. Barbra Streisand entered my life at a time when both of us had already lived through extraordinary careers.

 By the time we worked together on Times the Way We Were, times the world already knew us as stars. What it did not know was how quickly respect could grow between two people who approached their craft in completely different ways. Barbra never accepted anything halfway. Every scene mattered to her. Every line carried emotional weight.

 She questioned everything because she wanted every moment to feel authentic. At first, I thought we simply had different working styles. I preferred instinct. She preferred preparation. I liked quiet. She liked conversation. Yet, somewhere between those differences, I discovered something I admired deeply. When we filmed together, there were moments when the cameras disappeared.

 We were no longer Robert and Barbara. We became two people trying to tell a story about love, sacrifice, and impossible choices. Looking back now, I think that honesty is one reason audiences still remember the film decades later. They were not just watching actors. They were watching two people who genuinely respected each other’s commitment.

The public spent years wondering whether there had been a romance behind the scenes. Stories appeared in newspapers and magazines. Speculation followed us almost everywhere. The truth was much simpler. I cared about Barbara because she challenged me to become a better actor.

 She refused to let me settle for the easiest version of a performance. That kind of influence stays with you far longer than gossip ever does. Even after our paths separated professionally, I never forgot what we created together. Whenever someone mentioned times the way we were, times I found myself smiling not because of the headlines, but because I remembered the long conversations, the creative disagreements, and the mutual respect that existed when the cameras stopped rolling.

Love is not always romantic. Sometimes it is gratitude. Sometimes it is admiration. Sometimes it is the appreciation you carry for someone who helped shape one chapter of your life without ever realizing how important they had become. For me, Barbara will always be one of those people. Lola changed my life long before the world began calling me a movie star.

When I first met her, neither of us could have imagined what the future would bring. We were simply two young people trying to build a life together while chasing dreams that seemed far beyond our reach. She believed in me before critics did, before directors did, and certainly before audiences around the world knew my name.

The early years were anything but glamorous. There were auditions that led nowhere, bills that seemed impossible to pay, and moments when I wondered whether acting was the right path at all. During those uncertain days, Lola remained steady. She understood the man behind the ambition.

 She saw my fears even when I tried to hide them. And somehow, she always found a way to remind me that success was not the only measure of a meaningful life. As my career began to grow, everything around us changed. Fame opened incredible doors, but it also brought pressures neither of us had expected. Suddenly, every appearance became news, every decision attracted attention, and our private lives no longer felt completely private.

Balancing a marriage with a life in Hollywood was never easy. There were long months apart while filming, endless travel, and constant demands that left little room for ordinary family moments. People often assume that a long marriage must have been perfect. It was not. Like every couple, we faced disappointment, disagreements, and painful chapters that tested us both.

Yet, through those years, I never stopped appreciating the foundation we had built together. She gave me a family, she gave me stability when everything around me seemed to move at incredible speed. She reminded me that home was not a place on a map. It was the people waiting for you when the work was finished.

 Even after our marriage eventually came to an end, I refused to let the ending erase everything that came before it. Too many beautiful memories deserved better than that. We shared decades of our lives, raised children together, celebrated victories, and endured heartbreaking losses. Those experiences cannot simply be rewritten because life takes a different direction.

When I think about the people I loved most, I do not judge them by whether they stayed forever. I think about how deeply they shaped the man I became. Lola will always remain part of that story because without her, there is no version of Robert Redford that the world would ever have known. My children taught me lessons that no director, no producer, and no award ever could.

 People often think a father spends his life shaping his children. The truth is that my children shaped me just as much. They reminded me that the most important role I would ever play had nothing to do with Hollywood. When I came home from a film set, I wanted to leave the industry at the front door. I wanted to be dad, not Robert Redford the actor.

 Some days I managed that better than others. Fame has a way of following you everywhere, even into the quiet moments that are supposed to belong only to your family. I often worried about the attention my career brought into their lives. And I wished I could protect them from all of it. Nothing prepares you for the joy of watching your children grow.

 At the same time, nothing prepares you for the heartbreak that can come with being a parent. The loss of my son Scott, when he was only an infant, changed something inside me forever. It was a grief that never completely disappeared. You learn to keep living, but you never stop wondering what might have been. Every birthday, every family gathering, every milestone, carried a quiet reminder that someone was missing.

 That loss also changed the way I looked at life. Success suddenly seemed less important. I became more aware of how precious time really is. Later, watching my other children find their own paths brought a different kind of pride. I tried not to measure them against my career because they deserved the freedom to become exactly who they wanted to be.

 People have asked me over the years what achievement means the most. They expect me to mention an Academy Award, Sundance, or one of my films. Those accomplishments matter, but they are not the first memories that come to mind. I remember family dinners, long conversations, vacations away from cameras, and simple moments when nobody cared about premieres or headlines.

If I have loved deeply in this life, I have loved as a father. That love asks for nothing in return. It survives disappointment, distance, and even unimaginable loss. It becomes part of who you are forever. My children reminded me that no matter how successful I became, the greatest legacy I could ever hope to leave was not a film.

 It was the example I set for the people who called me dad. When people ask me who changed my life the most outside my family, one name always comes to mind. Paul Newman. Before we ever became close friends, I admired him from a distance. He carried himself with a quiet confidence that never felt forced. He had already become one of Hollywood’s biggest stars, yet there was nothing intimidating about him.

 He treated people with respect whether they were fellow actors or crew members whose names never appeared in the credits. Our friendship was never built on publicity. In fact, we rarely felt the need to explain it. We understood each other because we had many of the same concerns about the industry. We both loved filmmaking, but neither of us wanted fame to define our entire lives.

We cared about the work, but we also cared about living with purpose beyond the screen. As the years passed, I found myself turning to Paul not because I needed career advice, but because I trusted his judgment as a human being. We talked about directing, family, getting older, and the responsibility that came with influence.

 He had a remarkable ability to make complicated problems seem simple. He listened more than he spoke, and when he finally offered an opinion, it usually stayed with me long after the conversation ended. One of the things I admired most was his generosity. Through his charitable work, Paul demonstrated that success could become something far greater than personal achievement.

 He showed that the opportunities Hollywood gave us could be used to improve the lives of people we would never even meet. Watching him dedicate so much of his energy to helping others, forced me to think more seriously about the legacy I wanted to leave behind. When Paul passed away, Hollywood lost an extraordinary actor. I lost a friend whose absence could never really be filled.

 There are people you miss because of what they accomplished, and then there are people you miss simply because the world feels quieter without them. Paul belonged to the second group. If love can also mean profound respect, unwavering trust, and gratitude for a friendship that lasts a lifetime, then Paul Newman deserves this place in my story.

 He reminded me that character is revealed not by applause or awards, but by the choices you make when nobody is watching. That lesson has stayed with me every single day since we first met. If there is one person whose name belongs at the very top of this list, it is Sibylle Sagars. By the time she came into my life, I had already experienced the excitement of success, the pressure of fame, the heartbreak of loss, and the realization that life moves much faster than any of us expect.

 I was no longer searching for another Hollywood chapter. I was searching for peace. Sibylle never tried to change me. She never cared about the image people had created around Robert Redford. She cared about the man who loved wide-open landscapes, quiet mornings, long walks through the mountains, and the feeling of creating something meaningful away from cameras.

 As an accomplished artist herself, she understood that creativity is not measured by applause. It is measured by honesty. One of the greatest gifts she gave me was perspective. After decades of constantly looking toward the next film, the next project, or the next challenge, she reminded me to appreciate the life I had already built.

 We spent countless hours surrounded by nature talking about art, family, and the simple beauty of slowing down. Those conversations became more valuable to me than any Hollywood celebration. Growing older changes the way you understand love. When you are young, you often believe love is excitement, passion, or grand romantic gestures.

Later in life, you discover that real love is quieter. It is found in shared silence, in unwavering support, and in knowing someone is beside you without needing constant words. That is what I found with Sibille. People often ask what happiness looks like after a lifetime in Hollywood. They expect an answer involving awards, famous friends, or unforgettable premieres. My answer is much simpler.

Happiness is waking up beside someone who accepts every part of your story, including the chapters you wish had been written differently. Happiness is having someone who celebrates your victories without caring about your fame, and who stays close during moments the public never sees. Looking back over everything, I realized the people I have loved most each gave me something different.

 My family gave me purpose. My children gave me perspective. Friends like Paul Newman gave me wisdom. Colleagues like Barbra Streisand inspired my work. But Sibille gave me something I had spent a lifetime searching for without fully understanding it. She gave me peace. When the lights eventually fade and the films become part of history, that is the feeling I hope people remember.

 Not the image of a movie star, but the story of a man who discovered that the greatest success in life is finding people who love you for who you are when the cameras are no longer rolling. As I sit here looking back over nearly nine decades, I realize that the greatest moments of my life were never announced with flashing cameras or standing ovations.

They happened quietly. They happened in conversations that no reporter ever heard, in family moments that were never photographed, and in friendships that never needed headlines to prove they were real. People often ask what I am most proud of. They expect me to name a film, an award, or the Sundance Institute.

 I am proud of those accomplishments because they gave me the chance to tell stories that mattered. But, if I am being completely honest, they are not what fills my heart when I think about the life I have lived. I think about the people who believed in me before success arrived. I think about those who challenged me to become a better actor, a better father, a better friend, and a better human being.

 I think about the family who stood beside me through unimaginable joy and heartbreaking loss. I think about the friends whose wisdom continues to guide me even after they are gone. And I think about the woman who taught me that peace is the greatest gift two people can ever share. If these years have taught me anything, it is that love cannot be measured by newspaper headlines or public opinion.

Some of the deepest relationships in your life are invisible to everyone else. They exist in trust, loyalty, forgiveness, and the quiet understanding that grows stronger with time. The movies will always remain. New generations may continue to discover them long after I am gone. I hope they enjoy the stories we created.

But, I hope they also remember something even more important. Behind every performance was a man trying to learn the same lesson as everyone else, that life is not about becoming famous. It is about becoming worthy of the people who choose to love you. If you have people like that in your own life, hold them close.

Tell them what they mean to you while you still can. Awards eventually become history. Fame eventually fades. Time moves forward whether we are ready or not. But, love real love leaves a mark that never disappears. Those are the people I loved most. They shaped my life in ways no audience could ever fully see.

And if this is one of the last stories I ever get to tell, I am grateful that it is about them.