The death of Kris Kristofferson has left a deep impact on countless fans around the globe. Among those deeply affected by his passing is his ex-wife, Rita Coolidge.
To learn more about what Rita has been up to lately, keep reading.
Rita Coolidge was a major figure in the music scene during the 1970s. Though she gained initial fame for her talent, her personal life soon became a focal point of media attention. Now in her late 70s, fans are amazed by how gracefully she has aged.
Coolidge began her rise to stardom in the 1960s after moving to Memphis, where she worked as a backup singer for Delaney and Bonnie Bramlett. Her incredible voice soon led her to collaborate with some of the most famous musicians of the time, including Eric Clapton, Joe Cocker, and Stephen Stills.
When she later moved to Los Angeles, her career took off. She signed with A&M Records and released her debut album in 1971.
Though the album didn’t achieve commercial success, it established her as a respected artist. Her career took a significant leap when she married country music star Kris Kristofferson in 1973.
The duo became a well-known power couple in the music industry, collaborating on projects that led to two Grammy wins—one for “From the Bottle to the Bottom” in 1974 and another for “Lover Please” in 1976.
While their professional life flourished, their marriage faced numerous struggles. Coolidge has since spoken about the challenges they faced together, noting that while she didn’t want to portray Kristofferson negatively, their relationship had its difficult moments.
The couple’s story began when they met on a flight from Los Angeles to Memphis in 1971, with Kristofferson jokingly calling it “love at first flight.”
Kristofferson was originally headed to Nashville for a business meeting, but changed his plans to be with Coolidge. “By the end of that night, we’d already picked a name for our first child. I was sure we were meant to be together,” she recalled.
The couple’s personal connection was undeniable, and their professional collaborations were equally electric, mesmerizing audiences with their music.
As Kristofferson’s acting career took off, rumors swirled that Coolidge was using him for professional gain. She quickly dismissed these claims, pointing out, “When Kris and I were touring, he wasn’t the one with the hit records—I was. We were equals in both our work and our relationship.”
Coolidge openly shared how Kristofferson’s acting career impacted their partnership. With film offers rolling in, he spent less time in the recording studio, creating distance between them.
She also spoke about the emotional abuse she endured, saying he often belittled her talent. “Maybe he feels I mistreated him too, but I don’t think I did. It wasn’t constant, but it was enough to make me cry every day, and that’s no way to live.”
During their marriage, the couple welcomed a daughter named Casey. Tragically, they lost their second child, a heartache that added strain to their relationship.
By 1980, their marriage had unraveled, leading to their divorce. Coolidge chose to focus on her own career without seeking a financial settlement, wanting a clean break. “I didn’t think staying together was doing her any favors when it was clear her parents were not in sync,” she said. Despite the difficulties, they maintained a special bond even after the split.
In a 2016 interview, she reflected on their relationship, saying, “Kris and I share a connection. We laugh at things no one else understands. It’s a bond that goes beyond explanation.” When asked if they might perform together again, she replied with a smile, “Never say never.”
Kristofferson passed away on September 28, 2024, at age 88, surrounded by loved ones at his Maui home. His family issued a statement after his passing, saying he died peacefully.
“We’re grateful for the time we had with him. Thank you for loving him over the years, and whenever you see a rainbow, know he’s smiling down on us,” the statement read.
As for Rita Coolidge, she has been doing well in recent years. Fans have marveled at how youthful and vibrant she looks. Her social media is filled with comments from admirers praising her appearance.
“You look amazing!” one fan wrote on a recent photo. Coolidge was still touring into her 60s, and another fan remarked, “You’re a true talent and such a beautiful woman.” A third person simply added, “Rita looks fantastic!”
AT 78, I SOLD EVERYTHING I HAD AND BOUGHT ONE WAY TICKET TO SEE THE LOVE OF MY LIFE – IN THE PLANE, MY DREAM WAS CRUSHED
The worn leather of the suitcase felt rough against my trembling hands. Forty years. Forty years of regret, of guilt gnawing at my soul. Forty years since I had last seen Elizabeth, the love of my life. Forty years since my own stupidity had torn us apart.
I glanced at the address scribbled on a crumpled piece of paper, my heart pounding a frantic rhythm against my ribs. 123 Maple Street, Willow Creek, Ohio. It felt like a destination in a dream, a place I had only ever dared to imagine.
The plane ride was a blur. My mind raced, a whirlwind of memories and “what ifs.” What would she look like now? Would she still have that mischievous glint in her eyes, that infectious laugh that used to fill our small apartment? Would she recognize me, this old man, weathered by time and regret?
As the plane began its descent, a wave of dizziness washed over me. I gripped the armrests, my knuckles white. My chest felt tight, a burning sensation spreading through my lungs. Voices, muffled and distant, seemed to come from far away.
“Sir, are you alright?”
I tried to respond, but only a strangled gasp escaped my lips. The world tilted, then plunged into darkness.
When I awoke, I was in a sterile white room, the smell of antiseptic filling my nostrils. A blurry image of concerned faces swam into view – a nurse, a doctor, a young woman with kind eyes.
“Where… where am I?” I croaked, my voice weak and raspy.
“You’re at St. Jude’s Hospital, sir,” the young woman said gently. “You suffered a heart attack. You’re lucky to be alive.”
Heart attack. The words echoed in my mind, a stark reminder of my mortality. But a different thought, more urgent, pushed its way to the forefront. Elizabeth.
“Elizabeth,” I rasped, my voice hoarse. “Is she… is she here?”
The young woman hesitated, her eyes filled with a mixture of concern and uncertainty. “I… I don’t know, sir. Who is Elizabeth?”
My heart sank. Had I imagined it? Had the years of loneliness and regret twisted my mind, creating a fantasy, a desperate hope?
Days turned into weeks. I spent my recovery in the hospital, haunted by the uncertainty. The doctors assured me that I was stable, but the fear of losing consciousness again, of never seeing Elizabeth, lingered.
One afternoon, as I sat by the window, watching the world go by, a familiar figure appeared in the doorway. A woman, her hair streaked with silver, her eyes crinkled at the corners. She was more beautiful than I remembered, her face etched with the lines of time, yet her smile was the same, the same smile that had captivated me all those years ago.
“Arthur,” she whispered, her voice trembling.
Tears welled up in my eyes. It was her. Elizabeth.
She rushed towards me, her arms open wide. I held her close, burying my face in her hair, inhaling the scent of lavender, a scent that transported me back to a time of youthful dreams and endless possibilities.
“I never stopped loving you, Arthur,” she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. “I never stopped waiting.”
And in that moment, I knew that despite the years that had passed, despite the pain and the regret, love, true love, had a way of finding its way back home.
As we held each other, the world seemed to melt away. The years of separation, the loneliness, the fear – all of it seemed insignificant compared to the joy of holding her in my arms once more. We had lost so much time, but we still had now. And that, I realized, was all that truly mattered. The worn leather of my suitcase felt rough against my trembling hands. Forty years. Forty years of longing, of regret, of a life lived in a perpetual twilight. Forty years since I had last seen Elizabeth, the love of my life, the woman whose laughter still echoed in the empty chambers of my heart.
I remembered the day vividly. The rain was coming down in sheets, mirroring the storm brewing inside me. We were arguing, a petty disagreement blown out of proportion by youthful pride and stubbornness. I had stormed out, my words echoing in the rain-slicked street. “Fine,” I had spat, “I don’t need you!”
I hadn’t meant it. Not really. But the words hung heavy in the air, a cruel echo of my own anger. I walked for hours, the rain washing away my pride and replacing it with a growing dread. When I finally returned, the lights in our small apartment were off. I called her name, my voice cracking with fear, but there was no answer.
The police found her car abandoned by the river, a chilling testament to the storm that had raged within me. The search parties, the endless waiting, the gnawing uncertainty – it had aged me beyond my years. The vibrant hues of life had faded, replaced by a monotonous grey.
Then, a miracle. A letter, tucked amongst a pile of bills and advertisements, a faded envelope bearing a familiar handwriting. “I’ve been thinking of you,” it read.
The words, simple yet profound, ignited a fire within me. Hope, a fragile ember that had long since been extinguished, flickered back to life. I devoured every letter, each one a precious piece of her, a glimpse into the life she had built. I learned about her children, her grandchildren, her passions, her joys, and her sorrows. And with each letter, the ache in my heart lessened, replaced by a yearning so intense it almost consumed me.
Then, the invitation. “Come,” it read, “Come see me.”
She had included her address.
And so, here I was, 78 years old, sitting on a plane, my hands trembling, my heart pounding like a drum against my ribs. I hadn’t flown in decades. The world outside the window, a blur of clouds and sky, mirrored the chaos within me.
Suddenly, a sharp pain erupted in my chest. I gasped for air, my vision blurring. Voices, distant and muffled, filled my ears. “Sir, are you alright?” “We need to get him some air!”
Panic clawed at my throat. Not now. Not when I was finally this close.
Then, through the haze, I saw her face. Her eyes, the same shade of hazel as mine, wide with concern.
“John?” she whispered, her voice trembling.
And in that moment, time seemed to stand still. The pain, the fear, the decades of longing – they all faded away. All that remained was her. Elizabeth.
Tears welled up in my eyes, blurring her face. But I knew. I knew it was her.
And as I slipped into unconsciousness, I whispered her name, a silent prayer, a love song carried on the wind.
I woke up in a hospital room, the scent of antiseptic filling my nostrils. Elizabeth sat beside me, her hand gently clasped in mine.
“You gave me quite a scare,” she said, her voice soft as a summer breeze.
I managed a weak smile. “I wouldn’t miss this for the world.”
And as I looked at her, at the lines etched on her face, the silver strands in her hair, I knew that this was just the beginning. We had forty years to catch up on, to rediscover the love we had lost. Forty years to make up for the time we had wasted.
And as I held her hand, I knew that this time, nothing would ever tear us apart again.
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