There’s a peculiar calculus to a long career, one that spans decades as mine in television did. Thirty-six years. It’s a span of time that shapes you, defines you in the public eye, and constructs a rhythm that can feel as immutable as the turning of the earth. But what happens when the internal clock begins to tick to a different, more urgent beat? When the question ‘Is the task ever complete?’ yields not an answer, but a deeper inquiry into the nature of the tasks themselves?
For years, I lived by a schedule that was, in many ways, an inversion of the common day. The hum of the newsroom in the late afternoon, the glare of studio lights well into the night, the solitary drive home as the world slept – this was the known world. There’s an undeniable energy to it, a sense of being at the heart of the day’s unfolding story. And in that, there was a distinct form of connection.
Yet, there is an invisible price tag attached to such a life, a quiet erosion that happens almost imperceptibly. ‘Broadcasting,’ I’ve come to realize, carries its meaning almost too literally: a wide scattering of information, often a one-way address. The deep human need, however, is not just to speak, but to be heard; not just to inform, but to connect – to talk with, not merely at.
The relentless cadence of that professional life, while offering its own rewards, increasingly felt out of sync with the quieter, arguably more vital, rhythms of personal connection. The missed family dinners, the school events experienced through photographs, the community gatherings that were always ‘on the other side’ of my workday – these weren’t isolated incidents, but a pattern woven by the demands of the clock. More significantly, it meant watching my kids grow up from too far away, a profound realization that I couldn’t let more time pass missing those irreplaceable moments, nor indeed, missing out on so many other textures of life.
One tries, of course, to weave all the essential threads – career, family, self, community – into the tapestry of a life. Yet, with only so much time, so much energy, enriching one area often means another section must, by necessity, become sparser. For years, I attempted to re-thread that loom in countless ways, seeking a pattern that didn’t leave vital parts feeling incomplete.
The decision to step away, then, was less about leaving something behind and more about an intentional turning towards something: towards presence, towards a schedule that allows for spontaneous conversations, for being an active participant in the small, everyday moments that, in aggregate, constitute a life richly lived. It’s about reclaiming the ability to be in the community, not just reporting on it or speaking to it through a lens.
My new path, which I look forward to sharing more about soon, is chosen with this very intention. It’s a commitment to a different kind of engagement, both professionally and personally. This space, this blog, will be a part of that – an exploration, a conversation, a place to share not just what I’m doing, but what I’m learning and how I’m striving to connect in ways that feel more authentic and reciprocal.
The landscape of a life is not static; it requires tending, sometimes even a wholesale redesign. And as this new chapter begins, I am filled with a quiet excitement for the conversations to come, for the experiences to be shared, and for the simple, profound act of being present.
I hope you’ll join me.”
