At 78, Sally Field Reveals The 6 Men She Could Never Get Over

 

 

 

 

Sally Field remains one of Hollywood’s most beloved figures—a woman whose legacy spans decades, with performances that are both unforgettable and deeply human.

Her on-screen charm has long been celebrated, but behind her radiant smile was a quiet ache, a lifelong search for something deeper than applause.

She’s played America’s sweetheart, the rebel, the resilient mother, but beneath those roles lived a woman shaped by longing, heartbreak, and a desire to be truly seen.

Now, in the twilight of her life, Sally is opening up about the six men who left an indelible mark on her heart—some with love, others with pain, but all unforgettable.

Her journey began before fame, when she married Steven Craig at just 19. He was gentle, stable—the kind of man who made sense on paper.

 

 

 

 

After a chaotic childhood, stability felt like safety. They had two sons together and for a time, she convinced herself that was enough.

But as her ambition grew, so did the divide between them. He didn’t celebrate her rising star; he tolerated it.

In his presence, she felt invisible, her dreams dulled under the weight of domestic expectation.

Their eventual divorce wasn’t just the end of a marriage—it was the beginning of Sally reclaiming herself.

Still, he was her first love, the father of her children, a quiet chapter that lingered in her memory.

 

 

 

 

Then came Burt Reynolds—the man who brought chaos and fire. On-screen, their chemistry sizzled in *Smokey and the Bandit*, and off-screen, their romance was just as intense.

To the world, they looked like a fairytale, but behind the scenes, it was far from it. Burt, older and more established, was used to control.

Sally, still fragile from years of self-doubt, found herself bending to fit his mold. He could be charming, but also dismissive, making her feel small in the moments she needed to feel seen.

Yet, she stayed, craving the flickers of tenderness he showed between the shadows.

He never quite gave her the love she needed, but he remained etched in her heart—a complicated man she could never fully let go of.

 

 

 

 

 

James Garner was a different kind of presence. They never had an affair, never shared a romantic moment beyond the screen—but their connection was undeniable.

On the set of *Murphy’s Romance*, something unspoken passed between them. He was gentle, grounded, and quietly magnetic.

Around him, Sally didn’t have to perform. She could simply be. Timing, however, was not on their side.

Garner was devoted to his wife, and Sally was still healing. Their relationship remained a beautiful what-if, the kind of emotional intimacy that doesn’t need to be physical to be profound.

She later admitted it haunted her—not with regret, but with longing for what could have been had the stars aligned differently.

 

 

 

 

Not every man who left a mark did so with affection. During an audition in the early 80s, Dustin Hoffman wounded her in a way she hadn’t expected.

He was already a Hollywood giant; she was still proving herself.

What should have been a moment of creative collaboration turned into something deeply humiliating.

Hoffman belittled her in front of producers, mocked her delivery, and undermined her confidence with surgical precision.

It wasn’t romantic—it was painful. But that pain stuck with her longer than most fleeting flings.

Sometimes, it’s not love that leaves a lasting imprint, but the sting of being made to feel small in a world that already demanded too much.

 

 

 

 

In contrast, Tom Hanks was the gentle giant who reminded her of what kindness could feel like.

On the set of *Forrest Gump*, where she played his mother despite their close age, their bond was immediate and genuine.

Off-camera, he listened, he respected her, and he never once made her feel less than. It was never confirmed as romantic, but the emotional intimacy between them was unmistakable.

Some say it was purely platonic; others sensed a deeper connection that never crossed boundaries.

Whatever it was, it became one of Sally’s most cherished memories—proof that not all love stories need grand declarations to matter. With Tom, she felt safe, valued, and wholly herself.

But the man who haunted her the most was the one she never truly had: Marlon Brando. He was mythic to her long before they met—a symbol of everything she feared and yearned for.

When they finally crossed paths in the 70s, the attraction was electric.

 

 

 

 

Brando was brilliant, volatile, impossible to contain. He flirted with danger and left emotional debris in his wake.

They never embarked on a full romance, but the connection was undeniable. He represented a fantasy, the storm she longed to be swept away by.

Yet she knew, even then, that to surrender to him would mean losing herself.

“He was the storm I wanted to be swept away by, but I would have drowned,” she later confessed. That single sentence carries decades of insight and restraint.

Now, at 78, Sally Field isn’t chasing lost love or clinging to what might have been. But she remembers.

 

 

 

 

In those memories live six men who shaped her, scarred her, awakened her, and sometimes disappointed her.

Some gave her tenderness, others taught her resilience. Through them, she learned that love doesn’t always heal, and affection doesn’t always mean safety.

But it always teaches. And in the quiet spaces of her heart, their echoes remain—not as regrets, but as reminders of a life fully felt.