Settle for More

by Megyn Kelly

  Today I am much more open about who I really am, and it has helped me better connect with people. A couple of years ago, at the Fortune Most Powerful Women’s Conference in Laguna Niguel, California, I was going to be interviewed by Facebook COO and Lean In author Sheryl Sandberg, the only person I knew at the conference. The night before the interview, Sheryl—who was not yet in town—had suggested I have drinks with several of her friends. I had never met them, but Sheryl introduced us by e-mail, and the women said they’d be in the hotel bar and I should swing by that night.

  Well, I did it. I walked into the hotel bar and walked around a bit. I didn’t know what they looked like. No one stopped me. I walked back, twice. Nothing. So I went back to my room and ordered room service. I felt relieved to be alone, but also mad at myself for not having tried harder, and for not being bolder. It’s still hard for me to extend myself, to put myself out there. I fear rejection. I fear feeling like an outcast sitting (once again) at the lunch table with no one.

  The next day, during my exchange onstage with Sheryl, I told that story in front of hundreds of women. I admitted that even though I feel powerful in my job, I still get insecure meeting new people. I always feel pressure. I want them to like me. I want them to like the real me. And then, that honesty was rewarded. Afterward, several of those women who’d been on the e-mail thread wrote me and said, We would have loved to talk to you! and Let’s be sure to do it next time! and We looked for you! So sorry we missed you!

  I learned something: the messages in your head are not always well founded. Because at some level when you fail to make a connection like that, you’re thinking, They don’t really want me. When you take a risk, you find out maybe your instincts are off. M’Lady Amy—and Roger, and Brit, and my women’s group—all helped me finally see that. And it was in that frame of mind that I became open to finding true love in my life.

  My relationships with women were not the only ones in trouble. The reinvention in my professional life had underscored how little joy I had personally. The truth was, I was unhappily married, and I felt terrible guilt about it. I think when a couple grows apart, there’s a part of them that just keeps thinking, We’ll grow back together. And often they do. The problem was, Dan and I didn’t. While it was clear to me that Dan was someone I would always care about, it was also clear that all the hours and work and distance between us had separated us in more ways than one. I spent a lot of time talking it over with Amy, and those who cared about me.

  “You can’t live like this, honey,” my mom said when I called her for advice. “You have to take care of yourself.”

  Even though she was Catholic, and had never been divorced, she wanted me to have what she had always had—a deep and fulfilling marriage.

  I went on a trip with Andrea and Rebecca, and poured my heart out.

  “Dan is a great guy,” I told them. “Sure, we’ve had our problems—each of us has made mistakes, each has hurt the other plenty—but we both know the other person is fundamentally good and kind. So why aren’t I happy? How could I consider leaving someone I care about?”

  But the writing was on the wall, as you could see in my journal at the time:

  I have been asking myself some tough questions. Ones I’m not sure I want the answers to. Leaving the practice of law has shown me the paper-perfect life sometimes isn’t. I fear screwing up my life. Why can’t I just be satisfied with what I have? Because, in my heart, my soul, I want more. I hope I have the courage to listen to myself. I hope I figure out what settling for more means in my personal life and have the strength to do whatever it takes to have a full, meaningful life.

  Dan and I had many honest conversations. He knew we were not compatible. We cared about each other, but it was clear to both of us that we were not meant to be together. We agreed to part ways, and it was amicable. It was also very painful. I moved out.

  I bought a town house in the same development. For the first time in years, I was living alone. Dan and I stayed friendly. We shared custody of our two dogs. We both started seeing other people, and that felt strange. It was very sad. I never wanted to cause Dan pain, and he never wanted me to feel it, and yet we both were in pain. I shed a lot of tears that winter and spring. I dated a few people. He dated a few more. I think men in particular find that a helpful way to nurse their wounds, and Dan has never struggled to attract female attention, so this was not a problem for him. (He went on to remarry and have three beautiful children. We remain friendly to this day.)

  One day in the Fox makeup room, Brit and I were talking and I told him I was getting a divorce. I noted that we were parting amicably, and weren’t doing any alimony.

  “And so it’s official,” I said, making light of the situation. “I am the worst gold digger of all time. I spent years supporting Dan when he made no money. And the second he gets a high-paying job, I’m leaving.”

  And then Brit said one of the wisest of the many wise things he’s told me over the years: “You dig your own gold.”

  In the wake of my separation, I threw myself into my career, which I found to be a soothing balm. I was covering the Supreme Court for Fox, and a big case came up: Mrs. Smith goes to Washington—Anna Nicole Smith, that is.

  She was involved in a lawsuit over her deceased billionaire oil tycoon husband’s fortune. The nation—and much of the world—tuned in, riveted, when a dramatically thinner, more chic version of the Playboy model we all knew about showed up in person at the Supreme Court.

  Every show on the channel wanted my report live from the Supreme Court steps, as did our affiliate service Fox News Edge, our sister company Sky News in the UK, you name it. At the end of a long day, I did my very first hit for Bill O’Reilly, host of the number-one show on cable news. I told him about her travails—how she’d testified that it was very expensive to be Anna Nicole Smith, and she needed someone to continue funding the effort. Bill loved it. We had a fun, robust back-and-forth. One of his producers later told me that he went back to his team after the fact and said, “She’s a star. I want her on every week.”

  That was a big break for me. A regular weekly primetime gig would expose me to a much bigger audience than my mostly daytime reporting had. Not only did Bill introduce me to his audience, he treated me as an authority figure. He let viewers see that he respected me. He asked me to cover big news stories. It was a segment I would do faithfully for the next ten years. Bill was generous with his time and advice. He was always happy to sit down with me and offer his opinion, and I considered him a friend. I helped him too, taking time off to raise money for his daughter’s school, helping him promote his books, defending him publicly when he came under attack for this thing or that. We liked each other and had a great rapport.

  A month or so later found me covering the Duke lacrosse rape scandal. Brit put me on the case early. Three white male lacrosse players from (relatively) privileged families were accused of gang-raping a poor black single mother working as a stripper at a party. The media had already all but convicted the boys. Brit sent me to Durham, but before I went, he pulled me aside and warned me, “Keep an open mind.”

  From the get-go it was clear to me that the rape case was deeply flawed. I developed strong sources, who leaked many significant details to me, and managed to break a lot of news in the matter. Sean Hannity put me on his show almost nightly for months, which again was a terrific platform. He had his own connection to someone close to the case, and the two of us would “bong in” at 9:00 p.m. sharp nightly with new details on the case, the biggest story in the nation.

  It wasn’t long before some started to question my coverage as racist, and even sexist. Why was I casting doubt on the victim’s story? Was it my own “privilege” at play? The DA said it happened. Why would I question that? It must be an anti-black thing. I tuned them out.

  Soon enough, the truth came out—the only “victims” in that case were the three accused men. The accuser was a deeply troubled young woman who made the entire thing up. She w
as taken advantage of by an ambitious DA, Mike Nifong, who was looking to impress a largely black constituency in an election year. He was later disbarred and spent a day in jail. Since then, all three of the defendants’ families have reached out to thank me for being one of the only voices to give them a fair shake. I think of them to this day when some media watchers try to pressure me to fall in line with how the mainstream press is swimming on a story.

  I learned a lot from my Duke experience—including how many are quick to condemn any coverage involving race that doesn’t affirm their own views about what racism is. Fox News anchors are a favorite target for this—another fact of life I don’t love, but have learned to live with. It reminded me of the O. J. Simpson case, which I’d followed closely as a law student.

  Not long after I arrived at Bickel & Brewer, the O. J. verdict came down. Nicole Brown Simpson was only about ten years older than I was at the time. It was broadcast gavel to gavel on Court TV, and we kept it on at the law school around the clock. Not a student at ALS lacked an opinion. The vast majority of us believed he was guilty. The vast majority of us were also white.

  I’ll never forget how when we heard the decision was being read, everyone in the office ran into the conference room to watch it on TV—white lawyers, secretaries, and a paralegal, and one black receptionist. When the not-guilty verdict was read, our little conference room was a microcosm of what was happening around the country—everyone’s jaw dropped, and we stood motionless, except for our receptionist, who put her arms above her head and cheered.

  We looked at her in surprise, obviously missing the dynamic that in retrospect is so clear in that case. Most African Americans wanted an acquittal, believing the system was rigged against them. Most Caucasians wanted a conviction, having had far more positive interactions with law enforcement. I’ll never forget that moment, as it opened my eyes to the reality that two people can see the exact same facts and come to vastly different conclusions about what they mean based on their life experience. As a lawyer, and now a journalist, I find this thought helpful in checking my own bias when reading a case or a story.

  In addition to my field reporting, I had great opportunities back in the studio. After Chief Justice William Rehnquist died, Brit, Chris Wallace, and I were on the air wall-to-wall for a week covering the John Roberts confirmation hearings. Then Sandra Day O’Connor retired, and the same team was wall-to-wall, covering Samuel Alito’s hearings. I dove into those projects like I was the one facing confirmation. I read every case these judges had ever written, every article they’d ever penned. I went to the National Archives and read all of then–Judge Roberts’s papers from when he was in the Reagan White House. And when questions would come up at their hearings about a case or their judicial philosophy, I was able to explain it on the air.

  We had considerable downtime on the set while the hearings were in progress, and Brit, Chris, and I would chat like teenage girls. At one point Chris asked me whether I would have “even spoken to him in high school.” About a dozen male voices popped into my earpiece: “Say no!” . . . “No!” . . . “NO!” In the end I went with, “I would have, but I was in a stroller.” We laughed. As is typical for me, I was merciless on myself, watching our coverage back later. I wished I had been smoother. I thought I looked unattractive. I knew I could do better. It was just about then that Brit pulled me aside, telling me how proud he was of me. For a moment I thought maybe I’d been too hard on myself. And then just as quickly, I discarded that thought and resolved to do better the next time.

  Seeing that I could hold my own as a reporter, Roger Ailes asked me to try something new: substitute anchoring. I loved field reporting, but by this point I knew anchoring would allow me to do lengthier on-air interviews and to have a bit more fun on the air. He wanted me to sit in one weekend for Geraldo Rivera.

  “Are you ready?” Roger asked.

  “Absolutely!” I said, thinking, Not only have I never done this before, I’ve never even sat in an anchor chair.

  I was so grateful that he was going to let me try. “I won’t disappoint you,” I promised.

  “The only way you’ll disappoint me is if you try to hit a home run instead of a single,” he said.

  That is damn great advice, I thought. It took the pressure off.

  But I realized I would need some preparation. Before I headed up to New York, I practiced sitting in the anchor chair on the set in DC and reading the prompter. I realized that if I kept my eyes a couple of words ahead of what was coming out of my mouth, I would have a beat to think about my delivery. I ran through some old copy many times.

  Now, I needed to look the part. In New York, they give you The Works when it comes to hair and makeup. In DC you had to do your own hair, and given the seriousness of Washington, they didn’t use too much makeup on us either. Often I was short on time and did my own makeup anyway. For a few New York anchors, the hair and makeup room was like a spa. They would sit in the makeup chair for an hour and then in the hair chair for another hour after that. I questioned how I would budget that kind of time into my prep. Before, the whole thing was twenty minutes of my day. Which, for the record, explained the difference between how they looked and how I looked. The first time I saw myself with The Works, I thought, Wow, the hair is BIG. And they put false eyelashes on me.

  Later, I started refusing the eyelashes.

  “Are we doing Hollywood, or are we doing news?” I said to the makeup artist.

  The makeup artist said, “Both, honey.”

  “Get the fucking lashes!” my friend Julie Banderas would yell from the next chair.

  A word on hair and makeup at Fox: being on TV naturally plays into a person’s insecurities. Everything is magnified on television, and you see things about yourself you never saw before. Thankfully they pay people good money to make us look our best. Between the hair, makeup, and wardrobe stylist, they can really transform a person, and thankfully we employ the best in the business.

  To this day, I don’t think of myself as some sort of great beauty. I’m not unattractive, but without my makeup I’m not remarkable, and I don’t care if people see me without my face on. To crib a line from Trump, what you see is what you see. What you see on the air, however, is a very glammed-up version of myself.

  I also have to watch what I eat, especially because I don’t have time to go to the gym. After I had my children, something had to give, and I gave up on exercise. I follow the F-Factor diet, from the book by Tanya Zuckerbrot. The F stands for fiber, although there’s also a delightful section called “F-Exercise.” I started after the birth of my first child, Yates. It took off the baby weight right away. This book is a game changer, and no, I’m not getting paid to say any of this.

  Anyway, back to Geraldo’s show. The moment came. I went out there on the set, and I sat down to anchor my first show. It was thrilling. As always during those first few years at Fox, I went on the air rather buttoned up—wearing my Jones Day business suits and my old fake pearls. My delivery was stilted and awkward, but I was exhilarated.

  I arrived at Fox News that day nine hours in advance of the show. This is what you might call overkill. As usual, I overprepared for those five segments of television, which has always been my security blanket. I did the show Saturday and Sunday night at 10:00 p.m. I had to return to Washington very early Monday morning. The tryout had gone well. I thought, Did I just sit in Geraldo Rivera’s chair and anchor a national broadcast? I. Did.

  I walked out of my hotel into the heart of Times Square at dawn to catch the train back to Washington. The sun was rising. The sky was pink, and the twinkling lights were flashing against the hazy backdrop. There was no one there. I was in the middle of everything. Being alone for much of this year had felt scary and sad. But on this morning, it felt wonderful. New York, too, had at one point felt cold and alien. Now it felt like it could be home. I felt more alive than I ever had. It was as if the blinking lights around me were in sync with my own heartbeat, flush with blood
and pumping away. I was on my own in the center of the world, and the center of the world was where I felt like I belonged.

  As I would soon learn, however, the world can be a very dangerous place.

  12

  Nights of Fear

  I’ll never forget the first time I was recognized outside of work. I was in Reagan National Airport heading up to New York when a man came up to me and said, “Megyn!”

  Not being used to this, I walked right toward him, thinking we must know each other.

  “Yes?” I asked.

  “I watch you all the time!” he said.

  “Oh!” I said. “Thank you!” Act like you’ve been there, Meg!

  I told Brit about it when I got back to Washington.

  “You’re going to be very famous,” he told me.

  It sounded heady, the way he put it. But as I soon found out, fame has a downside.

  About two years into my time at Fox, I began receiving letters from a man who appeared to be a fan. First, they were nonsensical, and I didn’t think much of them. But then he started sending letters for me addressed to my colleagues, and—I would later learn from the authorities—leaving them for me around the city. He sent e-mails, too. And the tone grew increasingly disturbing. Then he showed up face-to-face, and it was clear he believed we were in a relationship. For the first time since I could remember, I was genuinely scared.

  I had to tell Fox about it, which I hated. It was my habit to keep my head down and work hard. I didn’t want to be a squeaky wheel: “Hi! I’ve been here less than two years and I have a stalker and I need security now and that’s going to cost you a lot of money! ’K, bye!”

  And then I had to contact the police, too, which meant I also had to face the truth of what was happening: there was a man out there who might try to hurt me.

  The police said he was an “erotomaniac,” meaning he believed he had a love relationship with me, even though we’d never met. One of the rules of dealing with a stalker (much like dealing with a bully) is to have no direct contact and to offer no response. This stalker, the police told me, was a convicted felon who was weapons-trained, and had been violent with another female stalking victim in the past.