I listened to a TED Talk recently that introduced a startling idea: we are often our own kidnappers. We build ornate, comfortable rooms for ourselves and then, slowly, over time, forget that we are the ones who hold the key. We become willing captives to the very lives we’ve painstakingly constructed.

Looking back, I can see the blueprints for this kind of confinement being drawn up early in my life. My youth was a kind of frantic, shotgun approach to finding myself. I tried everything: baseball, soccer, hockey, swimming, hoops. I picked up a piano, a guitar, a trumpet, a French horn. I was the lead in the high school play, and for a few ill-fated gigs, the lead singer for a band called “Rubber Bullets.” I juggled all this while running a paper route, collecting rent from half-awake adults on Saturday mornings.

I mastered none of it. The constant motion, the relentless trying, was the point. It was a way to outrun a quiet restlessness. In retrospect, perhaps I wasn’t searching for a single passion to land on; I was building a cage out of sheer activity, a place so full of striving there was no room for stillness.

This lifelong habit found its ultimate home in my television career. For 36 years, it was, in many ways, a golden cage. It provided security, a roof over my head, and a meaningful connection to a community I cherish. It gave me a public identity and experiences for which I will always be grateful. From the outside, and even from the inside on most days, it looked and felt like success.

But captivity, even when comfortable, comes at a cost. There is a ransom paid in unseen installments over many years. I have come to realize, with the stark clarity that only hindsight can offer, that I allowed my time to be hijacked by my commitment to the job. That hijacked time, in turn, ‘robbed my kids of their Dad for far too long.’ That is a difficult truth to write, but an essential one to acknowledge.

The kidnappers weren’t external forces; they were my own internal beliefs. They were the fear of ‘playing without a net,’ the conviction that I had to be ‘seen as being successful publicly’ or it would all fall apart, and the quiet, persistent need to make everyone happy so that I, in turn, might feel secure.

So what do you do when you realize you’re a captive in a prison of your own making? First, you have to see the walls. For me, that came during a period of intense stress a couple of years ago, when I finally stopped running long enough to ask, ‘What are you doing? Do you want more of this?’ Answering that question honestly was the beginning of crafting the key.

That key was realizing what I truly love: being involved, listening, educating, and being part of it all.

I am free now, but freedom isn’t an empty field; it’s a new landscape with its own mountains. The old doubts and self-prosecuting voices still whisper. But they are no longer the wardens. The choice of how I spend my time, the ability to be present for a family lunch on a Sunday or a ballgame on a Tuesday—that is the freedom I was seeking. I have taken back my own time.

I know my journey has been unique, but perhaps the question is universal. What are we afraid of? What won’t we let ourselves do? And if we were freed from the narratives that hold us captive, what new life would we step into?

Random Thought for the Week:

I wonder if people from municipal water treatment plants are just beside themselves watching the rest of us pay insane amounts for bottled water when, in most of America, the tap water is incredibly safe and nearly free.

Advice for the Week:

Get a pair of truly great headphones and listen to your favorite album all the way through. If you have anything less than excellent headphones, you have probably not heard your favorite music as the artist and producer intended. Also, consider the lyrics. I just recently truly understood what the song “She’s a Beauty” by The Tubes was about. A little embarrassing, but illuminating!

There’s a unique comfort in mastery, but also a quiet question that can arise from deep familiarity. My 36-year career in television, a role I loved, had recently begun to feel like playing a beloved part in Cats on Broadway for its 22nd year. The thrill of performance is always there, and you certainly know every nuance of the script, but the landscape becomes so well-known that you begin to wonder about your own capabilities beyond that stage. You begin to feel the pull of a new mountain to climb.

This past week, I began my ascent. I walked into Diablo Canyon Power Plant as a Senior External Engagement Representative for PG&E, trading the world I knew for one I am just beginning to discover.

The start has been, as expected, like drinking from the proverbial firehose. Yet, what has struck me most is not the volume of information, but the quality of the people delivering it. I am surrounded by individuals I can only describe as passionate and brilliant, whose attentiveness and depth of knowledge inspire a different, more deliberate way of thinking. One of the plant’s vice presidents recommended a book to me, “Love + Work,” and its theme resonates deeply. For years, I’ve been looking for a way to braid together my background in science with a deep concern for our environment and the future of energy. This new role feels less like a job and more like a purpose. Of course, I have the advantage of joining others who also left the TV life who have offered me both smiles and amazing counsel making a move like this. Here is a look at just some of people who make the same leap from the same place, it is good to have amazing friends like this.

This move, however, was always part of a larger life change journey I set out on nearly a year ago. A lot of that change has been about adjusting the rhythm of my life. And perhaps the most surprising discovery of this first week has been the unexpected ease of that new rhythm. Going to bed around 10 p.m. and waking up near 6 a.m., a necessity for this new role, has felt surprisingly natural. My sleep tracker shows it, but more importantly, I feel it – the quality of my rest has dramatically improved.

I’ve found a new routine: getting exercise or errands done right after work. This simple shift means there’s nothing left on the to-do list when I finally sit down to relax. And the simple, profound pleasure of being out and about while others are, sharing the same slice of the day, is in itself invigorating.

Do I miss being on TV? If I do, the feeling is slight. I’ll be honest, I haven’t watched a second of local television since my last broadcast. It’s also an interesting shift to a career where language is so careful and precise, a departure from the “excited words” television sometimes demands to engage an audience. I don’t miss that pressure.

The first week was a whirlwind, but each day was progressively better. Each day ended with a quiet, growing confidence: the feeling that “I can do this.” I feel like I have some road out in front of me, and I can’t wait to see what a few more weeks will bring as I learn from this new group of people.

I may not feel old, but I am certainly a novice again, and I’m embracing it. The journey continues.

For the last few weeks, as my 36-year chapter in television drew to a close, I’ve been moved by the warmth and kindness you’ve all shared. Amid the well-wishes, one question has been asked countless times: ‘So, what’s next?’ I’ve been looking forward to the day I could finally share the answer with you.

That day is today.

Next week, I will begin a new journey as a Senior External Engagement Representative with PG&E.

I know that title might not be as immediately familiar as ‘Chief Meteorologist,’ but for me, it represents a profound and intentional shift. For decades, my job was, almost by definition, ‘broadcasting’ – talking at a community through a camera lens. It was a role I cherished, but I felt a growing desire to change the direction of that dialogue, to talk with people, to listen, and to be more present in the community I love so deeply. The title itself, ‘External Engagement Representative,’ speaks directly to that aspiration.

This isn’t a departure from a life of service, but an evolution of it. For years, you placed your trust in me to deliver a reliable forecast. Now, I hope to channel that same commitment into a new form of advocacy, helping to facilitate the vital conversation about the energy that powers our homes, businesses, and future on the Central Coast and elsewhere in California. The message of reliable, clean and affordable energy resonates with me. The kind of energy that helps battle climate change. The message of safety inside a culture of care for customers and all the staff is exciting to join. After a career defined by journalistic neutrality, the opportunity to advocate for something I believe is essential and important is a new and exciting challenge.

The personal reasons for this change were the biggest drivers. As I’ve mentioned before, I longed for a schedule that allows me to participate more fully in the rhythm of life—to be present for my kids, to join friends for a trivia night, to simply be part of the community events that make this place so special. This new role, I hope, offers the structure for that more intentional, experience-based life.

I step into this new chapter with my eyes wide open. I’m trading a field where I was a 36-year veteran for an industry where I am very much the novice. There is a new mountain to climb, a great deal to learn, and I do so with immense humility and excitement.

I cannot thank you enough for the trust and connection you’ve given me over my television career. My deepest hope is that this is not the end of our conversation, but simply a change in its format. I’ll continue to share my journey, my thoughts, and my experiences here on this blog and my other social channels.

The end of one thing is always the beginning of another. I couldn’t be more grateful for what has been, or more energized for what’s next.

Thank you for being part of it all.

There’s a certain script one expects when a long chapter approaches its close. A quiet winding down, perhaps a touch of melancholy, the gradual turning of a page. But then life, in its wonderfully unpredictable way, hands you a different kind of story – one overflowing with such warmth and genuine connection that it reframes the very notion of an ‘ending.’

The past week, as my 36-year journey in television nears its final broadcast, has been less about a door closing and more about countless windows flying open. I truly could not have imagined the sheer volume of positive comments, the heartfelt goodbyes. The farewell piece the staff put together. Check it out:

That was the one that truly cracked the dam. It’s a humbling thing to see your daily interactions, your energy, even your arguably silly questions like ‘How do you feel on a scale of 37 to 234?’ reflected back at you as something that genuinely mattered to people.

It prompts the question, one I’ve heard a few times: if you’ve reached a point where you feel the deep respect of both the public you served and the colleagues you worked alongside, what more could you want? Why walk away from that? It’s a fair query.

My honest answer, for a long time, would have been ‘nothing more.’ And yet, there’s also the quiet whisper that asks, ‘Alright, what else is there to do here, in this specific arena?’ Not from a place of dissatisfaction, but from a recognition that one mountain, though beautifully summited, might simply reveal a new range on the horizon.

There’s also the undeniable reality of transitioning from a role I could perform with competence even on days my tank wasn’t entirely full, to a venture where the path is new, the skills still sharp. That brings its own peculiar blend of thrill and trepidation.

But this isn’t about leaving things behind; it’s about carrying them forward. The desire I’ve spoken of before – to get out and forge connections with people in person, not just through a screen – burns brighter than ever. Moving to San Luis Obispo has already been a step on that path, and the new career, with its promise (I hope!) of a different kind of schedule, feels like the next. It now feels incumbent upon me to meet this moment, to turn opportunity into the experiences and connections I genuinely seek.

This ‘ending’ has been months in the making, the culmination of decades. But my hope is to leave little truly behind. I want to metaphorically pack all of you – co-workers, viewers, friends – into the carry-on of my life as I step into the next chapter. The book I feel I’m writing has many more pages to fill.

And how could it not, when life offers such an abundance of good fortune? Wonderful children and friends, an amazing community that forms a vibrant tapestry of relationships I can’t wait to explore further.

And yes, through some miracle, I’ve still got most of my hair, I’ve managed five holes-in-one (don’t ask about the other shots), and I met Vin Scully in my travels. When you’re on this much of a roll, when life has been this generous, how can you not take another chance on what else might come up? There’s no room for looking back with regret; even if a different turn somewhere might have led to a different world, if it meant sacrificing what I have now, I’m not sure I’d make the trade.

My gratitude to the public, my friends, my co-workers… words truly fail there. I wouldn’t be me without all of you.

So, no, the end isn’t truly near. It isn’t ‘the end’ at all.

Come Monday, I’ll walk through a new door. I probably won’t immediately ask my new colleagues how they’re feeling on a scale of 37 to 234. But that doesn’t mean I won’t want to. Old habits, especially the fun ones, have a way of finding new expressions. I’ll get around to it.

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