“I hope you die!” she told her former babysitter.
Her first wedding took place on the beach.
She thinks her new look is “a little rebellious.”
Despite her humble birth on July 1, 1967, in Ladysmith, British Columbia, to a waitress and jack-of-all-trades, the brunette in the photo’s birth was reported in a newspaper. She was the first centennial baby.
She went on to have an extraordinary life sparked by another instance of being in the right place at the right time. However, she first had to survive a traumatic childhood of violence and abuse.
Her parents were 17 and 19 when they had her and still went out occasionally. Somewhere between the ages of four and eight, she had a female babysitter who molested her for around a year.
The babysitter “sexualized” the girl at a very young age, making her play inappropriate games. One day, the caretaker told her because she is a “bad girl,” Santa Claus would not visit her that year.
“I ran after her in tears, calling her a liar… and clumsily stabbed her with a candy-cane-striped pen in her chest,” she penned in her memoir. “‘I hope you die!’ I screamed through tears.”
The female predator died in a car accident following her graduation not long after. On hearing the news, the girl came to believe it was her doing, that she had some extraordinary power. She carried this with her for her “entire young life,” eventually confiding in her mom and dad.
Her parent’s volatile relationship would also cause her to act out. Once, when the couple was fighting, she tried to divert attention away from it by telling her younger brother to hide while she convinced the town that he was missing.
Her father would dole out cruel punishments. When she went against his wishes to have her kittens in the house, he placed them in a paper bag and drowned them in the ocean. “I felt like I died that night, too,” she remembers.
Between ages 12 and 14, she was sexually assaulted twice, and a boyfriend kicked her out of a moving car. She once stopped her father from assaulting her mom further by punching him.
The young brunette became known as “Blue Zone Girl” when she was spotted on a jumbotron at a football game, but she would soon be renowned worldwide by her real name, Pamela Anderson.
A beer company scouted her as a spokesmodel, leading to a Playboy shoot. A “Home Improvement” role brought her into the mainstream, but she became a superstar portraying CJ on “Baywatch.”
Her whirlwind romance with drummer Tommy Lee crescendoed into a wedding on the beach in Cancun, Mexico, in 1995, where she wore a white string bikini and he was in trunks. The couple had two children, Dylan Jagger and Brandon Thomas.
The footage they made during their honeymoon was stolen and sold as one of the first sex tapes of the internet era. The actress has never watched the tape but has felt its effects. She wrote how it “ruined lives,” starting with their relationship.
Lee was jailed for four months after he was found guilty of spousal abuse, and they divorced in 1998. She filed for full custody of the children in 2012, claiming that he was emotionally and physically abusive towards them.
Anderson has experienced a resurgence in her career. She has taken back the narrative surrounding her crafted by the media with a memoir, “Love, Pamela,” and participating in the companion Netflix documentary.
Returning to her coastal hometown of Ladysmith, Anderson found a “healing space” with its “crazy calmness.” With limited paparazzi on the island, she feels protected. She lives alone with her five dogs.
“I live a more romantic life now that I’m alone than I did in relationships,” Anderson said of the home she made in her grandparent’s old farmhouse.
The humanitarian runs through the waves on the beach adjoined to her property year-round. When not working, she keeps busy in the 15,000-square-foot vegetable and rose garden and has taken up pottery. “I’m very crafty. I didn’t realize,” she said.
In an interview with People in January 2023, she conceded that she would like to have someone to share her life but that it tended to be a case of her catering to her partner’s needs. After Lee, she wed Kid Rock and married Rick Salomon twice (one of which was annulled).
Her most recent marriage to Dan Hayhurst lasted only a few months and ended in 2021. The “V.I.P.” star has learned that she does not need a man to bring her roses:
“I’ve just planted a hundred rose bushes. I can get them any time I want — and they’re my favorite roses.”
She told Elle in August 2023 that the early morning hours were her favorite time. Anderson spends this time writing a newsletter, though she quipped she does this to distract herself from writing long, rambling emails to her sons.
Just as gardening and writing in the mornings replaced the party lifestyle she enjoyed at the height of her fame, so has her signature beauty look morphed into something else.
She was known for big blond hair, thin brows, and heavy eye makeup with tiny outfits that were, by her own account, “wild and uninhibited.” Anderson added:
“I don’t know if it was a defense mechanism or what. I just thought, ‘I’m going to have fun.’”
Over the past few years, she has been sporting a more stripped-down beauty look, sometimes looking like she is not wearing makeup. Following the death of her makeup artist, Alexis Vogel, she started taking a new approach. She explained:
“She was the best. And since then, I just felt, without Alexis, it’s just better for me not to wear makeup.”
The star might have turned her back on the signature look, but a new generation of people have rediscovered her Y2K style and #Pamcore trends frequently on TikTok.
The animal lover contends that her beauty update is “freeing, and fun, and a little rebellious too.” When she looks in the mirror, she feels “rooted for.” Pamela Anderson says she is in a good place.
I Planned to Reclaim My Father’s Inheritance That Was Left to a Stranger Until a Family Secret Changed Everything — Story of the Day
I thought my father’s will would secure my future. Then the lawyer read a name I didn’t recognize. My grandmother’s fury was immediate. Who was Brenna, and why did my father leave her everything? And what secret was behind it?
My life used to always be governed by rules. Every morning, a strict voice echoed through the house.
“Sit up straight, Mona. Don’t slouch. A lady always keeps her composure.”
That was Loretta—my grandmother, my guardian, my shadow. After my mother died, she took over, raising me in her grand image.
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Everything had to be perfect. My grades, my posture, and even the way I folded napkins. It was exhausting, but I tried. I always tried.
When my father passed away, Loretta quickly turned her focus to what mattered most to her. Control. But I remember the day my life changed. We were sitting in the lawyer’s office.
“You’ll invest the money wisely, Mona,” she had said that morning, already outlining how we would rebuild the family’s legacy. “Your father worked hard for this.”
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I believed her. For years, Loretta’s confidence had been unshakable, her plans infallible. So, as we sat in that cold office with its stale coffee, I felt sure of my future.
“As per your father’s wishes,” he lawyer, glancing at the will, “his estate and money will go to Brenna.”
“Who!?” The word escaped my lips before I could stop it.
The lawyer paused. “Brenna is your father’s other daughter.”
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“Sister? I… I have a sister?”
“Impossible!” Loretta’s sharp voice ricocheted off the walls. “This must be a mistake! My son couldn’t leave everything to some stranger!”
“It’s no mistake, ma’am,” the lawyer said. “Your son provided clear instructions. Brenna inherits the house, accounts, and stocks.”
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“What?” Loretta’s voice rose to a shrill pitch. “You’re telling me that child, someone we don’t even know, takes it all?”
I barely heard them. A sister. A sister I never knew existed. Loretta’s hand gripped mine, pulling me back.
“We’ll fix this, Mona. We’ll find this Brenna and make sure she does what’s right.”
Her words felt suffocating, but I nodded. Defying Loretta had never been an option.
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***
In a few days, I arrived at Brenna’s house due to Grandma’s instructions. The small house leaned slightly to one side, its peeling paint flaking like sunburned skin.
The front door creaked open before I even knocked, and Brenna stood there, smiling wide. Her arms hung loosely at her sides, her fingers twisting together in a rhythm that seemed more instinct than thought.
“Hi!” she said, her voice bright, almost musical. “I saw you coming. Did you park by the mailbox? It’s wobbly. I keep meaning to fix it, but…”
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She trailed off, her eyes darting to the corner of the doorframe. She tapped it three times with her knuckles.
“Uh, yeah,” I replied awkwardly. “I’m Mona. Your sister.”
“Come in!” she interrupted, stepping aside but not making eye contact. “Watch the floorboard near the kitchen. It squeaks.”
Inside, the house smelled faintly of clay and earth. The narrow hallway opened into a kitchen dominated by a long workbench covered in half-finished pottery pieces, jars of paint, and tools I didn’t recognize.
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Brenna rearranged a set of mismatched vases on the windowsill three times, muttering under her breath before nodding in satisfaction.
Then she turned back to me, her smile returning as if nothing had happened. “You’re my sister.”
“Yes,” I said slowly, unsure how to navigate her openness. “Our father… He passed away recently.”
Her smile didn’t falter. “What’s it like? Having a dad?”
“It’s… hard to say. He was kind. He cared. We were friends.”
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She nodded, her fingers twitching against her thighs. “I never met him. But I have his hands.” She held up her palms, showing faint traces of clay. “Mom always said so. Big hands, like him.”
Her sincerity was disarming. I’d expected resentment or at least suspicion, but instead, she radiated a quiet acceptance.
“Dad left me a gift,” Brenna said.
“A gift?” I repeated. “That’s… nice.”
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“Yes. He called it that. In the letter from the lawyer. Did he leave you a gift too?”
I hesitated, Loretta’s biting words ringing in my ears. “Not really. He didn’t…”
“That’s strange. Everyone should get a gift.”
I smiled. “Maybe.”
“You should stay for a week,” Brenna said smiling. “You can tell me about him. What he was like. What he liked to eat. What his voice sounded like.”
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“A week?” I asked, startled. “I don’t know if…”
“In return,” she interrupted, “I’ll share the gift. It’s only fair.” Her hands were twisting together as she waited for my response.
“I don’t know if I have much to say about him,” I said, though even as the words left my mouth, I felt the pang of their untruth. “But… okay. A week.”
Her face lit up. “Good. We can have pancakes. Only if you like them, though.”
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She turned back to her workbench, humming softly. I knew what her so-called “gift” was. At that moment, Loretta’s plan seemed simple. Too simple. But Brenna’s kindness was already complicating everything.
***
That week at Brenna’s house, I felt like stepping into a parallel universe, one where the world spun slower and expectations melted away. Everything about her life was so unlike mine.
Breakfast was no longer a croissant from the corner bakery paired with a sleek latte. Instead, it was simple—bacon, eggs, and a mug of tea served on paper plates.
“Easier this way,” Brenna said one morning. “No big cleanup. Time saved is time for pottery.”
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She had a way of saying things so directly, without the filters most people wore. It was disarming.
But her habit of setting and resetting the plates on the porch rail, always ensuring they were aligned right, made me watch her closely. Each ritual told a story.
“Let’s walk to the lake,” she suggested after breakfast on my second morning.
She slipped out of her sandals, leaving them neatly by the porch steps, and stepped into the grass barefoot.
“It’s better like this.”
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Dew clung to the grass, cold and sharp against my feet, as I followed her. She led the way, occasionally pausing to touch the leaves or to rearrange a small pile of stones along the path.
Those small, deliberate actions seemed to calm her like they were as necessary as breathing.
At the lake, she crouched by the edge, dipping her fingers into the water. “You ever just sit and listen?”
“To what?” I asked, standing stiffly behind her.
“Everything.”
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Brenna’s studio became the heart of our days. The air inside smelled earthy and damp, the scent of clay and creativity.
She handed me a lump of clay on the third day. “Here. Try making something.”
My first attempt was a disaster. The clay slid through my fingers, collapsing into a shapeless blob.
“It’s terrible,” I groaned, ready to throw it aside.
“It’s not terrible,” Brenna’s hands moved gently as she began reshaping the clay, showing me the motions. “It’s just new. New things take time.”
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Her patience amazed me. Even when I spilled water on her workbench, smearing one of her finished pieces, she didn’t scold me. Instead, she carefully cleaned the mess.
Just as I started to relax, finally free from Loretta’s constant control, her calls became more frequent. It was as if she could sense the shift in me, the way I was beginning to breathe a little easier and live a little differently.
That night, her voice came through the line sharp. “Mona, what are you waiting for? This isn’t a vacation! You need to take action. She doesn’t know what to do with that kind of money.”
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I stayed silent, but my grip on the phone tightened. I could feel her impatience boiling over.
“She’s naïve, Mona. You need to convince her to sign it over. If persuasion doesn’t work, then… Well, figure something out. Use her trust if you have to.”
Her words stung because they felt so wrong in Brenna’s world.
“I don’t know, Grandma. It’s not as simple as you think.”
“It’s exactly that simple,” she barked back. “Don’t get distracted by her little quirks. Focus, Mona.”
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I wanted to argue, to tell her that maybe Brenna deserved more than she realized, but the words wouldn’t come. Instead, I mumbled something vague and ended the call. For the first time in my life, I started questioning my own motives.
***
The following day, Loretta arrived unannounced, her sharp presence tearing through the peace like a storm. Her heels clicked on the uneven floor as she stepped into the house.
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“This is where you’ve been hiding?” she snapped, her eyes darting over Brenna’s neatly cluttered pottery studio. “How can you stand this mess, Mona? And you,” she turned to Brenna, “you have no right to what’s been given to you.”
Brenna froze, her hands trembling as she rearranged vases on the workbench, muttering, “Gift, gift,” under her breath.
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Loretta ignored her, turning to me. “Mona, end this nonsense. She doesn’t deserve your father’s legacy. She’s…” Loretta’s voice grew venomous, “not like us.”
“Gift,” Brenna said louder, pointing toward a small cabinet in the corner. Her rocking grew more pronounced, her fingers twisting at her apron.
I hesitated but opened the cabinet. Inside was a stack of old letters, their edges worn and faded. Each one was addressed to my father. My breath caught.
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“What are those?” Loretta demanded.
“These are from Brenna’s mother,” I said, flipping through them. “Did you know?”
Loretta paled, but then her face hardened. “I did what I had to! Do you think I’d let some woman trap my son with a broken child? When she came looking for him, I told her to stay away. I refused to let her and her daughter become part of this family.”
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Her words were cruel, and Brenna clung to the table, her wide eyes fixed on Loretta.
“You destroyed this family,” I said, my voice trembling. “You never even told him he had another daughter.”
Loretta’s bitter laugh filled the room. “He found out! That’s why he changed his will. And now you’re letting her take everything!”
“Dad left a gift,” Brenna said softly. “He wanted me to have it.”
“This isn’t about money, Grandma. And I won’t let you take anything else from her.”
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Loretta stormed out, slamming the door behind her.
I turned to Brenna. “I’m so sorry. I love you, sis.”
“Do you want pancakes?” she suddenly asked as if nothing happened.
“Oh, I really do!”
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We ate on the porch as the sun dipped low, painting the sky in soft hues. From that day, we started building a life together.
I helped Brenna grow her pottery studio. We repaired the house, filled it with flowers, and I rediscovered my love for painting by decorating her creations.
Word spread, and soon people came from other towns to buy our work. Life wasn’t perfect, but it was ours. For the first time, I wasn’t living to meet someone else’s expectations. I was living for us—Brenna and me.
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