I can’t tell you where I put my car keys or what I had for breakfast three days ago, but I can tell you Oprah Winfrey’s goal weight.

My current Apple password and most of my elementary school teachers’ names have been lost to the mists of time. But I can tell you how much Ms. Winfrey weighed at her heaviest and how many pounds of fat were in the wagon she schlepped across the stage, post-Optifast, in 1988. I can also tell you how my own weight compared with hers at any given moment of my adult life.

By now, you’ve probably heard the news that Ms. Winfrey is thin, again. You’ve seen pictures of the mogul/producer/talk show host/author/worldwide icon, in a purple gown, on the purple carpet for the freshly remade film version of “The Color Purple,” which she co-produced. Maybe you’ve read the People magazine story in which she talks — or comes clean, in magazine-speak — about using one of the new weight-loss drugs, which, along with drinking a gallon of water each day, counting Weight Watchers points and eating her last meal at 4 p.m., has gotten her within seven pounds of her goal weight.

“I had an awareness of [weight-loss] medications, but felt I had to prove I had the willpower to do it. I now no longer feel that way,” Ms. Winfrey told the magazine. “I have been blamed and shamed, and I blamed and shamed myself.”

I believe her.

I believe that Ms. Winfrey has suffered, in ways that I, as a larger woman, can understand and in ways that I, as a nonfamous white woman, cannot.

When I read Ms. Winfrey describing how weight “occupied five decades of space in my brain, yo-yoing and feeling like why can’t I just conquer this thing, believing willpower was my failing,” I nodded in recognition. Been there, felt that. And I can assure you, it is wretched when you’re considering your happy life full of love and accomplishment and all you can think is, “If only I weren’t so weak. If only I could only lose 20/40/60 pounds. Then I could be content.”