She nearly died at 8, then became one of Hollywood’s most powerful women! – Story Of The Day!

When she was eight, she experienced a moment that could have ended her life. She was in a car with her great-uncle Jack, who was ninety-nine years old and driving. As he drifted into oncoming traffic, no one spoke up—not her, not her parents. They watched a vehicle barreling toward them and stayed silent out of deference, fear, and habit. At the last second, Jack corrected the car’s path and avoided a head-on collision. Everyone survived, but the psychological message stuck: even when danger is obvious, don’t be rude. Don’t confront. Don’t interrupt. Stay polite.

That lesson became a theme in her life, and decades later it would become the core of her memoir, Dying of Politeness. In that book, she also revealed something even darker: a traumatic experience from her childhood that she carried like a secret because she didn’t have the language, education, or permission to speak about it. While delivering newspapers, she was molested by a neighbor. She didn’t fully understand what was happening in the moment. The shame came later, especially after seeing her mother’s reaction. Her mother confronted the man and warned him never to touch her again, but no police report was filed, and the incident was never explained to Davis in a way that clarified why it was wrong. Without that clarity, it became something she felt responsible for, something she learned to bury rather than process.

She later described the brutal double bind that many children in similar situations face: knowing something terrible happened, sensing it was serious, but being taught—directly or indirectly—that the safest move is silence. The lesson wasn’t just that abuse was wrong. The lesson she absorbed was that complaining draws attention, and attention is dangerous. She wanted to talk about it, but she didn’t.

School wasn’t an escape either. Another defining feature of her youth was her height. She was tall early and stayed tall, standing out in a way she hated. She didn’t want to be noticed; her body made that impossible. Teachers tried to recruit her for sports. She found her place in track and field, doing high jumps and hurdles, but it didn’t erase the feeling of being different. The teasing didn’t help. Boys mocked her with the nickname Kareem Abdul-Jabbar, turning her height into a punchline. The insecurity wasn’t vanity; it was survival. When you’re shy and self-conscious, being physically unavoidable can feel like a spotlight you can’t turn off.

Despite the discomfort, she kept building skills. She played flute in the marching band. She spent time studying abroad in Sweden during her senior year and became fluent in the language—an unusual accomplishment that hinted at the discipline and intelligence behind her quiet exterior.

After high school, she attended New England College in New Hampshire and later transferred to Boston University to study drama. Her parents didn’t fight the decision. They weren’t stage parents pushing a dream; they simply didn’t fully understand how improbable a successful acting career was. Davis later noted that they accepted her choice partly because the idea of it working seemed so unlikely. She also admitted a strange detail: she never told her parents she didn’t graduate, even though the public narrative often assumed she had. They died without knowing the truth.

In 1977, she moved to New York City and did what nearly every aspiring performer does: whatever work she could find. She was a window mannequin, a sales clerk, a waitress. At the same time, she pursued modeling, believing it could be an entry point into film. Her thinking was blunt and practical: at the time, famous models like Christie Brinkley and Lauren Hutton were getting film offers. She figured modeling might be the quickest route into movies. She wasn’t chasing fashion for fashion’s sake. She was chasing a door.