by Megyn Kelly
The letters and e-mails were gibberish, but suggested that he was somehow receiving messages from me. And that he was receiving messages about me from other people too. I started doing research on similar situations. Well, that scared the daylights out of me. I realized this could go badly. That one wrong move could aggravate things. I felt adrift, with no one to talk to, and no one in my life with any relevant expertise.
The stalker kept escalating things, quickly. Fox News hired me a round-the-clock guard. Then things escalated more, and Fox got me a second round-the-clock guard. The guards protected me, but also advised me on security. I would go to bed at night, and the guards would be there with their loaded revolvers. I lived like that for a long time.
Stalking is a deadly serious crime. It is very hard to shake a stalker. It’s like getting a letter in the mail: “Sorry, your life is now ruined for at least a decade.” It often ends violently. Still, nine times out of ten stalking is treated as a misdemeanor. And the victim, to get a restraining order, typically must be present with her stalker at any hearing, which is insane. Most women can’t afford a lawyer to go on their behalf. And even if you get the judge to rule in your favor, there are never any teeth in the penalties. It’s not until a stalker does something worse than stalking that the courts finally get interested.
When you have a stalker, you walk down the street differently. A stranger would cross toward me and I would tense up. I was on edge all the time, given the constant threat and his focus on me. I couldn’t go through public spaces the same way. There was no feeling better about it. Every movement was fraught with questions: What’s my escape plan? What weapon will I use if I’m attacked? Pulling into my garage was a totally different experience. Every hackle was up. Am I returning to danger? When this door goes down, am I trapping myself in?
That was a scary time for me. I kept a fully charged cell phone on my bedside table and took other measures to put layers between me and an intruder. I started to learn how to handle a gun, which felt empowering but also somehow sad. It was one thing to learn to handle a weapon out of interest. It was another to do it out of fear. My journal entry from August 11, 2006, read:
Went to the shooting range last weekend. It was kind of stressful. The adrenaline was flowing and when it was all over I felt quite anxious. At one point I became slightly overwhelmed—seeing myself there, goggles on, headphones on, firing a loaded .357 Magnum, a 9mm semi-automatic, even an enormous shotgun—and I felt teary. What has become of me? How did I get here?
I took many other security precautions I will keep to myself, since I remain under threat to this day—by this man, who is back on the streets after a long imprisonment, and, now, others. Suffice it to say, that was not the last restraining order I was forced to get, nor the last violent, disturbed stalker I would fear. I followed every piece of advice my security guards gave me to the letter. But this man stole my sense of safety from me for a very long time. (By the way, to all women, whether you have a stalker or not, read The Gift of Fear by Gavin de Becker. It is life-changing. Please, just do it.)
Not that there’s ever a good time to be stalked, but I have to say, the timing on this was particularly bad. Here I’d finally reinvented myself, moved into my own home, left behind a job that was suffocating me for one that I loved, and was really hitting my stride, and then—terror. I began to ask myself, How much do I want this? Am I willing to be threatened to do a job I love? It’s a question no one should have to ask, and yet there I was. I began to wonder whether it was worth it. I still loved my job—but I hated the side effects. Still do.
Both of the big decisions I’d made in the prior years—to leave Dan and to leave the law for TV—were suddenly not looking so hot. As I sat by myself in my locked bedroom, the downside to my choices was pretty apparent.
Eventually the stalker was arrested, and I felt liberated. But soon I would become the target of someone else. Around this time, someone started a rumor that my relationship with Brit was more than mentor-mentee. A lie spread that Brit and I were having an affair. Brit was my boss. He was the managing editor of the DC bureau. And his wife, Kim, was also my boss. She’d brought me in to Fox News. I loved them both.
Radar Online started peddling the story. They called me a “Humewrecker.” I was upset. I was in the process of divorcing Dan and living alone. I had been working hard to prove myself. I had never even come close to having an affair with Brit—not a single inappropriate or even borderline moment, ever, between the two of us. Brit was Bret Baier’s mentor too, but obviously Bret never had to deal with this kind of suspicion around their equally platonic relationship.
Most of all, I hated that people might think I was getting ahead by sleeping my way to the top. Major, my officemate, knew very well that there was no affair. He had a few theories about who might be behind the rumor—a Fox News media relations executive had (at least) pushed it online, and he was caught (and fired in the wake of) modifying my Wikipedia page to add the falsehood. I was too green at the time to realize how egregious that was, but it happened.
Meanwhile, Brit was strutting around the office, proud as a peacock! He was handing out the Radar link like cigars at the birth of a baby.
He walked into my office, chest out, half-cocked grin, saying, “Have you seen Radar?”
I, on the other hand, was not smiling. “Wait, you’re upset about this?” he asked, surprised. He was genuinely amused by it, and thought its absurdity was apparent to all.
“Of course I’m upset!” I said. “People will believe it.”
“Don’t be ridiculous!” he said. “They won’t.”
“Yes, they will,” I said, knowing all too well that people love to dismiss potentially threatening women as “nuts or sluts.” Evidently, I didn’t pass for a nut, so I was to be branded a slut—never mind that my sexy home life consisted of armed guards sitting in my living room while I lay sleepless upstairs, scared and alone.
“You’re Brit Fucking Hume,” I said. “Nobody knows me. They’ll see that I’m thirty years younger and blond, and they’ll just assume that’s the whole story.”
“They won’t,” he said, “because we didn’t have an affair. Therefore, there will never be proof of an affair. There will never be a text, a photograph, a phone bill, a doorman, a driver, an e-mail, or anything whatsoever that suggests an affair. And people will come to see that it’s a lie.” And he was right. I think about that lesson to this day when people say false things about me: over time the truth comes out.
Years later, at his retirement party, Brit and I were in a crowded restaurant in Washington. Dignitaries and public figures were there from all walks of life, from Vice President Dick Cheney to Brian Williams of NBC News. Brit stood up to thank his guests.
“I haven’t been this honored since that rumor was going around about me having an affair with Megyn Kelly,” he quipped. “You know, when that rumor first broke,” he continued, “the Fox News PR people came to me and said, ‘We’ve got to tamp this down.’ And I said, ‘Do we have to tamp it down right away?’
“‘Well, it’s not true, is it?’ the rep said.
“‘No,’ I said, ‘but it’s not impossible!’”
The room roared with laughter. By that point, I could laugh too.
I spent years learning from Brit. He later told me he knew from the start I’d be headed for big things. “There is no job in this industry unavailable to you,” he’d say. He also shared with me the story of what happened when he and Kim had first seen my résumé tape, which included clips of my reporting from WJLA. He said when the last piece of tape rolled, he and Kim looked at each other and high-fived. I always remembered that, because it was similar to the story with Professor Melilli and his assistant coach when I tried out for the trial team. It meant something to me—confirmation that I was supposed to be there.
Would anyone have been doing that if I had auditioned for a job at NASA? No. But I had found what business consultant Laura Garnett calls the “zone o
f genius,” meaning the place where one’s top talent combines with one’s passion—with what one really wants.
I had always wanted to be a broadcast journalist. Way back in 1988, when I was not yet eighteen, I wrote about watching a presidential debate on TV and feeling mesmerized by it even though I couldn’t vote. It had taken fifteen years, but my fascination remained, and the more I immersed myself in my new chosen field, the more fulfilled I was.
Well . . . the more fulfilled at work. In my personal life, I was still searching.
I’d started dating here and there, but didn’t have a strong emotional connection with any of the men. I wanted baby steps out of my first marriage: safe, easy dates—just enough not to be totally isolated. What I wanted more was time to myself, time to be myself again.
I started questioning whether I could really find all the things I wanted in one person. M’Lady Amy—who was happy in her marriage—was forceful in her advice.
“The man I’m looking for doesn’t exist,” I told Amy.
“Yes, he does,” she said.
“You found the only one,” I responded.
“Nope,” she said. “There are lots of them.”
“Bullshit.”
“Put this one back on the shelf,” Amy said.
She encouraged me to change my thinking as I asked question after question about the men I was meeting.
“You’re focusing on the wrong person,” she told me. “Put all of this energy back into yourself.”
If I had only heard that advice when I was a dieting boy-crazy college student, I wonder how much time and unhappiness I could have saved myself.
Women, I think, have a tendency to obsess about male partners. Whenever I started thinking too hard about this guy or that one—Is he right for me? Am I right for him? Does he like me too much? Does he like me enough? Will he call? Why didn’t he? When will I see him again?—Amy would bring it back to me. I channel that message often: “You’re thinking about the wrong person.” It means when you find yourself devoting too much emotional energy to something, try redirecting your thoughts to yourself and how you can improve your own life. What is within your power to change? How can you make yourself more fulfilled?
This strategy is empowering, and results in you becoming a more interesting, well-adjusted person. This in turn attracts better people into your life. For me, it reduced banal worries like Will he call? Instead I could think, He’ll call or he won’t. I’m going to my guitar lesson. In my experience, happiness begets happiness, and fulfillment leads to more of the same.
I resumed playing my guitar. I read a lot. I worked out and took long walks. I was taking good care of myself, for the first time in a long time.
It’s probably no accident that that’s when Doug came into my life.
13
Writing the Wrong Things
I met Doug Brunt in late July 2006. We were set up on a blind date in Washington, DC, by a mutual acquaintance, and it was a date that almost never happened.
A woman I knew e-mailed to say that she wanted to fix me up with a colleague of hers. They’d been flying somewhere and were watching me on Fox News from their seats. She saw that he liked me. He’s reserved, but she saw it. She e-mailed me without telling him. I almost deleted the e-mail, and with it, my future children. Something told me not to do it, and instead I hit save. Months later, I saw the e-mail again, and reconsidered. I asked her to send me his picture. She went back to him and said, “Don’t be mad, but I did something. Give me a picture.”
He did, and he was not mad at all.
Our first date was at Zaytinya in Washington, DC, a trendy spot that had a long, open bar in back.
Because of the stalker I was spooked, so I wanted my girlfriend to wait at the corner of the bar doing recon to let me know when Doug got there, and to make sure he didn’t seem sketchy. I had never been on a blind date before.
At 8:00 p.m. I got the first e-mail. Blue blazer. Handsome. All good.
I started over, then got another e-mail one minute later. Abort! Abort! He just hugged and kissed another woman. Not him.
Then a third e-mail. Blue blazer. Dark hair. Much more handsome. Think you’re going to like this.
In DC, it turns out, blue-blazer-and-dark-hair is not enough description. I walked into the restaurant, and there was Doug, seated at the end of the bar. He had gone to Duke and knew me from my coverage of the Duke lacrosse rape case, so he recognized me right away. He stood and guided me to the seat next to him.
Doug lived in New York and was CEO of a technology company based in Florida. In those days he flew over DC about twice each week but rarely stopped in. He said he was passing through for work, and later confessed that he had scrounged up a meeting of no consequence for the following day.
He was generous, funny, and gorgeous. He had a relaxed boldness to the way he talked. Some people wriggle around what they say, worried about what others may think. Doug just talked. He trusted in his good instincts, didn’t make attempts to dress things up. He was witty and well read, but not in a showy way. More than anything, what I remember about him that first night is that he listened. Really listened, and followed up. He has a way of making you feel heard.
After one drink I dismissed my girlfriend from the other side of the bar. After the second drink, the restaurant announced last call. Washington, DC, is terrible that way, so we left, laughing down the sidewalk like college sweethearts, looking for a late-night bar.
It was all the stuff of a great first date. There were no tearful outpourings of childhood traumas or past relationships. He was inquisitive and perceptive. He offered a new perspective when hearing my old stories, and I liked the way his brain worked. It was refreshing.
When we left the second bar, I said, “You’re very tall. How tall are you?”
“Six two.”
“You seem taller.”
“That’s because I actually am six two.”
One of the first men I’d met not to add an inch to his height. Also refreshing.
Doug stepped into the street to hail a taxi, and one pulled right up. I walked over to him, and our bodies angled for the approach to a kiss on the cheek to end the night.
My heel went into a pothole. I went forward, almost over, except he was standing right there. I fell into him, and grabbed him out of reflex.
“Hi,” he said.
He would later kid me that I literally threw myself at him.
Date one could not have gone better. I started calling him Dream Date Doug. My mom reminded me that “Just Doug” could work out too. It was a happy oasis in an otherwise dark time. We had avoided the personal trauma and grief. I saved that for date number two.
It was in part that I already trusted Doug to hear it. And it was in part that I was overwhelmed. The day before our second date, I had been asked to answer ten questions for a DC politics blog—things like “If you went on a trip and could pack one thing, what would it be?” I’d put the quiz to Doug, and we’d had a great e-mail banter, answering and critiquing each other’s answers all afternoon, leading up to our dinner the next night.
One of the questions was, “When did you last cry?” My answer was “today.”
Doug saved his inquiry about that one until dinner. “Why did you cry yesterday?” he asked.
What the heck, I thought, and I dropped the old convicted-felon-stalker chestnut on him.
Doug was what I knew he would be: a good listener, and a strong shoulder. He also offered thoughts that helped me process what was happening. He had suggestions on how to keep me safe and well.
We were in Café Milano, another of the swanky restaurants in Georgetown, and among the waiters there was a man in a black tuxedo selling single red roses for the price of an entrée.
Doug nodded to the man.
“Don’t, Doug,” I said. “That’s not necessary.”
He still looked at the man in the tuxedo.
“I’m serious. Don’t,” I commanded.
&
nbsp; Doug smiled. Warm, calm. “You’re going to have a rose tonight.”
Overruled. I loved that. I wasn’t used to that, certainly not after I had commanded. It was another refreshing change. He was confident without being showy. Not at all a self-promoter.
Believe me, I’ve overruled Doug plenty, and that’s one of the things that makes us work so well. We each have the strength and self-assurance both to overrule and to be overruled.
It’s also nice to be with someone who can make decisions. Especially these days, I make hundreds of decisions each day at work. It’s better to come home to a partner who can make decisions too.
Doug knew what he wanted out of life, which was right in line with my own discoveries about what I wanted for myself. He was an intellectual who was quick with a laugh. He reminded me of my dad.
I loved the rose, even though I’ve never been all that fond of flowers. Nothing against flowers, really. It’s just that as a substitute for any real communication from a romantic interest, flowers are a cop-out. Every woman I know would rather have a heartfelt letter.
After dinner we stepped outside the restaurant to a late-summer DC night. I was going home and Doug back to his hotel, so we stopped near the restaurant entrance on the sidewalk.
I was very attracted to him. We’d laughed through most of dinner, and all the while there was a building romantic connection. A kiss to end the night felt natural.
The problem was that I still had two armed security guards with me, 24/7. They were parked ten yards away and standing outside their car, looking at us.
Anyone could see a kiss was coming, especially two professionals paid to watch me. They might have been trained killers, but they were also gentlemen, and turned their backs.
