I am making another pass around the sun today, though I admittedly do not feel my age. I am fortunate to still have my hair, and people frequently compliment my energy—though at this stage in life, I suspect noting my energy is as much a cautionary observation about my vintage as it is a compliment.

Historically, this is the kind of day that prompts a flurry of social media activity. But like many people, I have quietly retreated from the digital town square. Aside from sharing the occasional project for work—which I genuinely believe in and love doing—my personal feeds have gone largely dormant.

There is a cost to that withdrawal. I miss the mundane, beautiful updates: a friend’s daughter at cheer camp, a family getting ice cream on a Tuesday. But those human moments are increasingly buried under an algorithm with a heavy, virtual finger on the scale, prioritizing geopolitical outrage and manufactured friction. With the exception of uncooked sports opinions, the ecosystem simply no longer serves me.

So, why write this at all? Because while I do not miss the algorithm, I do miss the actual engagement.

For decades, my career as a TV meteorologist provided a massive platform for that connection. It was a nightly high-wire act, a chance to perform and project into thousands of living rooms. I loved the people I worked with, and I never minded the conversations in the grocery store aisles. Being recognized on the Central Coast and talking about the weather was a privilege.

But I do not miss the clock.

The most profound shift in my life has been the restructuring of my time. Today, I am often in bed before 10:00 PM—nearly two hours before my old workday would have even ended. I have reclaimed the early evening. I am home while the sun is still up. I have the time to walk through town, sort my thoughts, and say hello to people I don’t know, engaging with the physical world rather than a camera lens.

That shift in time has brought a necessary humility, particularly in my relationships. My son and daughter are adults now, and our dynamic has fundamentally changed. My job is no longer to stop them from crossing the street in traffic, or to push them over the next immediate hurdle. My job is simply to listen. That street runs both ways; they know me better now, too, and none of that understanding comes from “back in my day” lectures.

Professionally, the new hours came with a new mountain to climb. At Diablo Canyon Power Plant, I am surrounded by a high-performing culture of over a thousand brilliant minds. I am fortunate to be on an exceptional team—working alongside several familiar faces from my broadcasting days—but as I branch out and build new connections across the facility, I find myself deeply inspired by the sheer intelligence of the people I work with. It is a new, rigorous challenge, and I am grateful for it.

Internally, however, the shift is even deeper. I have spent most of my life as a relentless prosecutor of myself. My operating system was built on examining my flaws and aggressively chipping away at them, constantly seeking the next metric of validation.

That prosecution is ending. I am actively retiring the need for external validation. I am learning to look at my life and say, with absolute conviction: I have enough. More titles, more money, more digital likes—none of it moves the needle anymore.

I have never been a person who looks backward by design, but today I find myself looking over my shoulder. I am thinking about my hometown of Fargo, North Dakota, my high school classmates, the early jobs that shaped my career, and the hard-earned lessons of being a father, a brother, a son, a friend, and a colleague.

I have been reading a lot lately about the mechanics of human behavior and the concept of free will. It strikes me that life is less like a blank canvas and more like a cross-country drive from Los Angeles to New York. Eventually, you find yourself at a fork in the road somewhere in central Kansas. You feel the weight of the decision, but the reality is that your choice was likely already cooked in by a thousand preceding events. You choose the left fork because of how you were raised, the people you met, the specific failures you absorbed, and the exact environment you inhabit in that moment.

Whether this current mile marker was reached by profound, autonomous choice or by sheer, deterministic chance, I consider myself incredibly fortunate. I am looking forward to the next phase of this journey of discovery. To everyone who has shared this road—not merely as circumstances of chance, but as the people who made the miles matter: thank you.

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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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.”

As many of you know, my time on TV is approaching its final few weeks, and a new, exciting adventure is just around the corner. The question I hear most often is, “So, what’s next?”

While I can’t share all the specifics just yet (for good reasons, I promise!), I want you to know that I am incredibly enthusiastic about what the future holds. This move is something I’ve thought long and hard about – a step that I believe is best for me, my family, and importantly, for our ongoing connection.

What I can say is that my new role is in a field I believe in passionately, and I truly can’t wait until I can share with you all why it matters so much to me.

More than anything, I want to express my deepest gratitude for your years of viewership, your thoughtful comments, and the genuine connection we’ve built. That connection doesn’t end here – in fact, I’m hoping we can make it even stronger!

This blog, along with my other social media and online profiles, will be the place where our conversation continues and evolves. I invite you to follow along as I’ll be sharing much more about this new journey. Think of it as a space where I can share more personal insights, stories from this new chapter, updates on what I’m learning and experiencing, and, just as importantly, a place where I can hear much more from you.

I’ve already made some huge changes in my life, and I’m genuinely excited to share those with you, become even more involved in our community in new ways, and explore this future together.

I know I’m being a bit vague on the details for now, but please bear with me – it will all become clear very soon.

Until then, I hope you’ll tune in and enjoy my final few weeks on TV. Thank you again for everything, and I’m truly looking forward to what’s next for all of us.

Stay tuned!