WOMEN of the YEAR

13 extraordinary leaders fighting for a more equal future

NICOLE KIDMAN

Championing women on both sides of the camera

By Eliana Dockterman

IN THE DAYS AFTER GIVING BIRTH, NICOLE KIDman found herself unable to breastfeed. "I was so terrified, asking, What just happened? Where's my milk?" she says. "I remember standing naked in the shower, and my sister helped me. She was my source of strength. She'd had five children-she had the wisdom to pass on."

Kidman and I are curled up in chairs beside a fireplace inside a historic Nashville home, not far from the house the Oscar winner shares with her husband Keith Urban, their two daughters, and a serene poodle named Julian. Kidman is warm and disarmingly inquisitive: she wants to hear about my postpartum experience too.

Perhaps I shouldn't be surprised by the ease of this conversation about vulnerable moments in our lives as women. Kidman, 57, has emotionally exposed herself on screen for decades. On the drama Big Little Lies, she huddled under a towel between shooting scenes of domestic violence. In her latest film, Babygirl, she growled while masturbating on the floor. She marks all her scripts with notes about her characters, coded for privacy. Then she shreds them: "It's too personal. I want it gone."

Filmmakers adore her rawness. "People believe if you have power, you don't have to go to a place of vulnerability," says Oscar-winning director Jane Campion, Kidman's longtime friend. "A lot of actors won't do that because it's uncomfortable." For Kidman to be truly open with a director requires a leap of faith. She describes herself as trusting to a fault. "It's how I approach all of my relationships. I've been hurt because of that, but I'm still not jaded," she says. "I'm delicate, but I'm very giving. The emotions I offer are very, very real, so I need to know that if I'm giving that to you, you value it."