by Megyn Kelly
As for the attempts to blame the victims for not speaking out sooner, it is management’s job, not that of the employees, to ensure that a company has ethical leaders who comply with the law, and to make certain that women feel safe to report any incident. That did not happen at Fox, and I suspect Fox is not alone. Roger maintained complete control at FNC—over the talent, the management, everyone. Not only did these women fear for their jobs, they feared being attacked by his PR and legal teams. They feared his many loyalists throughout the company who had risen to positions of authority but were protective only of him. This was a man who reportedly used private investigators and others internally to go after suspected enemies. He kept us all under careful watch—with security cameras and security locks requiring a Fox ID on every floor, guards patrolling the halls, and provisions in our contracts agreeing that our office communications may be monitored (this is standard practice at many shops). The point is: reporting about the boss—anonymously or otherwise—had daunting challenges at Fox. His victims, who I would later learn were typically vulnerable in some way—new to the company, going through a divorce, or having suffered a death in the family—were in an untenable situation. The entire structure was set up to isolate and silence them. Even those of us who did take the risk of reporting his behavior up the line didn’t manage to effect any change. The bottom line is: the more we criticize harassment victims for their understandable reluctance to go on the record, the more women we’ll shame into silence forever.
The thoughts I am left with are these: having meaningful controls in place to encourage reporting is critical—controls that account for employees’ legitimate fear of coming after a powerful superior, especially a CEO. Having managers in place who understand their own responsibilities upon receiving such a report is equally important. (Sexual harassment training may help—it gives businesses some cover if they get sued—but it is far from a cure-all; we had it many times at Fox; clearly it wasn’t enough.) As for the employees, there is strength in numbers. Women who have been harassed need to communicate with their colleagues, in particular, their fellow women. Men, too, can be harassed, and the same advice applies to them. One of the scariest things is thinking you are the only one, and fearing the task of taking on a king. If one’s budget allows, retaining counsel may also help. Without Willis Goldsmith, I would have felt far less protected.
Finally, anyone being harassed needs to remember that no is an available answer. Roger tried to have me, and I didn’t let him. I got out of his office with my self-respect intact, even if I felt demeaned. Most women I know have had to do this dance with a male superior at one point—trying to reject inappropriate behavior while also trying to avoid explicitly calling him out. But when push comes to shove, no is always there for you. It is not foolproof—as, sadly, any sexual assault or rape survivor can attest—but when dealing with a boss whose goal is not to forcibly overtake you but instead to see how far he can push you, it may offer an escape hatch. You may be flying the beautiful F-16, sleek and shiny and a powerhouse in the air, but when fire hits the cockpit, there’s always the eject button to remove you from immediate danger. Get out of that room, get somewhere safe, and get help, in the form that works best for you.
I worked my tail off for the next ten years. I established myself as a serious person. I built my own power. And when the allegations about Roger hit, I used it. Perhaps there is some poetic justice in that. Times are changing for women in this country. We’re putting up with less. Standing up for ourselves more. And making strides some never thought possible.
One week after Roger Ailes resigned, I watched as former Secretary of State Hillary Clinton became the first woman in US history to accept a major party’s presidential nomination. In an arena in Philadelphia, her daughter, Chelsea, introduced her, the two women embracing onstage.
Mrs. Clinton then let go of her daughter, turned to the cheering crowd, and began.
25
Settling for More Today
Recently, I took the kids to visit my mom in Albany. During our stay, she taught them to gamble, trash-talk, and curse, and told them a horrifying story about a little child who goes swimming in the ocean and is eaten by a shark. She also suggested they start calling her “Beautiful Grand-ma-maa” in a British accent—though she said “Beautiful Nana” would suffice in a pinch. They’re mulling it over.
While sitting at the dining room table, working on this book, I watched over my laptop as my mom accused Yates of cheating at Monopoly and then told him, “Yates. Is. Great!” Cue Yates’s big smile. She went on, “But not as great as his Nana!” Cue bigger smiles—his and mine. Oh, Beautiful Grand-ma-maa.
Sitting there, watching them play, I smiled, thinking of how the Kelly family marches on. Nana, at age one hundred, finally agreed she might need some help taking care of things, so she moved in with my mom and Peter. “They’ah treatin’ me like Lady Ho-sh Shit,” Nana tells me. Being Lady Horseshit is apparently a good thing.
Patrick’s daughter Susan got married. Peter walked her down the aisle in a beautiful outdoor ceremony. As she said her vows, the clouds above parted for a beat and the sun shone down upon her. Liza later said, “I knew my brother would find a way to say hello.”
It’s the end of what, by any measure, has been an extraordinary year. I’ve had many new experiences—some bad, some good. A few new party invitations came my way—including the Vanity Fair Oscar party and the Met Gala. Before the Oscar party, Doug and I went to a “night before” party in the Hollywood Hills. The home belongs to actress Helen Mirren but was being rented by Absolut Vodka. The decorations were exquisite. There were tiny red lanterns, white lights, white and red flowers, and votive candles everywhere. (There were also synchronized swimmers wearing 1950s-style bathing suits, because, hey, why not?)
They had flown in an award-winning bartender from London. I asked the host what one orders from such a bartender, and he said, “I recommend you just go over there and tell him what kind of a day you’ve had.” Off I went. The tall, blond British barkeep, who was throwing glasses in the air like a juggler, stopped to ask what he could get me.
“Well,” I said, “I’ve had a shit year. I’m exhausted. But I’m here in LA with my husband, and it feels like my first night off in a decade. What do you have for that?” (For the record: Absolut Elyx, citrus, and Earl Grey tea.)
It was a kick meeting people whose faces I had seen on the big screen or whose music I listened to, people whose work I admired. Meeting Taylor Swift was especially fun. She called me a powerful woman. I said the same to her. Then I realized I’m old enough to be her mother. Another Absolut Elyx, please!
Given that when not at the anchor desk I’m usually in jeans and a T-shirt, I enjoyed dressing up. I chose my Met Gala dress just a couple of days before the party. Busy with work, I was forced by my assistant to make a call on the offerings she had arranged to have waiting in my office. Mom offered to lend me a dress she’d just bought for herself at Fashion Bug, where I also used to shop in Delmar. It’s black with sequins on it, “and of course,” she said, “I look stunning in it.”
Instead, I picked a black sheath with a metallic back by Badgley Mishka. The day of the Gala, I went to their salon. The designer, Rob, told me to try it on, and said Badgley and Mishka would be out to take a look. Is that a joke? I wondered. I had no idea if they were actual people, never mind alive and in this salon at that moment. (They are indeed real people.)
An interesting thing happened to me on the party circuit. Taking in these A-list, star-studded events, I realized something—they’re not life-changing. They’re fancy parties with lots of famous people, period. And no matter how famous they are, they’re still just people. And I’m still me, the girl from Albany who wonders, whenever someone recognizes me on the street, Why are they looking at me? Do I have something stuck in my teeth?
These parties are like Saks Fifth Avenue at Christmastime—a visual delight, full of glitter and twinkling lights. The displays
are mind blowing in their no-expenses-spared extravagance. But returning home to a comfy room with a fire burning, watching a favorite old movie, or playing Pie Face with my kids is pretty damn good too. (This is an actual game involving a face-full of whipped cream. My brother Pete ought to be getting royalties.) Often I feel like a fish out of water in all that fabulousness. It’s not that I don’t like being there, it’s just that it doesn’t quite jibe with who I know I really am—the tomboy on the tire swing.
Thankfully I have plenty of help staying humble. Not long ago I was in a restaurant with my friend Susan Lucci. We went to the ladies’ room together. A woman in the bathroom could not believe she was laying eyes upon Susan.
“Oh my God! Susan Lucci!” this woman exclaimed. “I love you! I have never missed an episode of All My Children! I love Erica Kane! Oh, I cannot believe this!”
Susan was her normal kind self, smiling and thanking her fan.
Then the woman lost her smile, gave me the side-eye, and said, flatly, “I know who you are, too.”
My Albany Law School Theory of Life—just when you think you’re some sort of hot shot, life has a way of reminding you, Yeah, not so much.
I would not describe this past year as easy. But I have no regrets about it, either. I did my job, and controversy followed. At Fox News I honored my ethics, and paid it forward to the women coming up behind me, despite the risks of doing so. These events—very public and painful—tested me, and I survived. In fact, I was strengthened. They brought me and Doug even closer together, and reminded me of what’s important in life. Unlike when I was younger and tried to go it alone, I leaned on those around me—often. Now those relationships are closer, too.
I was reminded that what M’Lady Amy said was true: there may be some cads in the world, but good men really are out there in abundance—I have them on my team, and I also happen to have three of them right in my apartment. When I look at my husband, I think, as my old friend Maureen used to say, That’s a real man. Not just because he is smart and strong. It’s because he’s decent and good. Doug is a loving, involved father who respects me and our children and the life we are building together. That is the kind of partner I want to have, the kind of partner I want Yardley to meet someday, the kind of man I know our two sons will become.
Recently Doug and I had a particularly great day with the kids, one of those days with so much laughter and adventure, the kind that makes you feel like you want to stop time and just live that day over and over.
“It’s too bad Thatcher isn’t old enough to remember this day,” Doug said to me after we put the kids to bed.
“It’s all ingredients into the cake,” I said.
Our little boy might not remember the details of what we did—how pretty the weather was, how sweetly his big brother and sister played with him, how his mom and dad held him—but all that warmth and love is going somewhere. Those experiences are making him the child and the man he will be.
The same is true of any human being. You can use the difficult times to shore yourself up, to prove to yourself you can handle anything, or you can lament your bad luck and cry in your soup about life being unfair. One is productive, and the other, most certainly, is not.
Tough times can be stressful, but they also have a way of centering us, of shining a light through the darkness. I learned this after the death of my father, which gave me a consciousness of my own mortality, and that has led to better choices. Knowing how little time we have has helped force me to pull myself out of sadness, debt, emotional armor, and a job and marriage I knew were not good enough. I’ve found a career that excites me, a husband I deeply love and respect, true friendships, and three beautiful children whose joy, love, and zest for life have brought those same things and so much more into my own. It’s given me the gift of ambition—not for money, or power, or fame but for more: more human connection, more goodness, more time. The hard times remind you it is possible to change your life. To do better. To be better. To settle for more.
But settle for more is not a onetime thing. It’s not like you redesign your life and then sit back and say, “Nailed it! Done.” It’s a framework for looking at life long-term and finding opportunities to make things better. And what “more” means at age twenty-five is different from what it means at forty-five; when you’re starting out in your career versus when you’re established; when you’re single and unmarried versus when you’re married with children.
Likewise, as I sat back and watched my mom and my kids play games in my mother’s dining room, it occurred to me that settling for more at forty-five would be different than at seventy-five, my mom’s age. Whatever age I am, I thought to myself, I will always settle for more of this—more games with my children, more laughs, more fun. That’s what I need, it’s what fuels me—and lately I haven’t had enough of it, so that’s something I’ll be working on in the months to come. And I know I will find the balance.
Today I look at the future and see unlimited opportunity—for more meaningful time with my family, more work I find fulfilling, and, always . . . more John Denver.
I’ll be a dandy and I’ll be a rover.
You’ll know who I am by the songs that I sing.
I’ll feast at your table, I’ll sleep in your clover.
Who cares what the morrow shall bring?
Acknowledgments
I generally find it challenging to convey the depth of my gratitude without hugging or singsongy tonal inflections. But I’ll give it the old college try.
Thank you to my love and partner Doug, who personifies “more.” He was the first person to read this manuscript and the one who helped me find the courage to write it in the first place. If every reader hates this, and every viewer leaves me, I’ll still have Doug, so screw ’em.
To my children, Yates, Yardley, and Thatcher—amid the klieg lights, cameras, and craziness in my life, it’s when I have you around me that I know why I’m here. Thank you for showing me. And remember what I told you: good little boys and girls never leave their mommies. Ever. Even for college . . . or marriage. Don’t believe what others tell you.
Mom, Dad, Sue, and Pete—love and belated thanks for making fun of my feet, my pale skin, my bad haircuts, and all the rest, since I otherwise might have developed a big head along the way. I owe so much to you, like the ability to laugh at everyone. I mean everything. Not everyone. That would be wrong. I get that. I swear.
Dad, a million tomorrows have all passed away and I haven’t forgotten the joy.
Peter Kirwan, thank you for loving us, and for always knowing when I need a hug, usually before I know it myself. You are magnificent.
To Nana, my eternal gratitude for the boatyard, the monster stories, the free rein, the swearing, and the look on your face whenever we laid eyes on each other. Soon you’ll be with Pop Pop, dancing to “When Irish Eyes Are Smiling”—and they will be, right here, through joy of tears.
Liza, for the many laugh-so-hard-your-stomach-hurts moments (many via text during this past year), I will never be able to properly pay homage. As R. H. Sin put it, “Some women fear the fire, some women simply become it.”
Jackie, Diane—here’s to you being in the “rose” or “bud” category every year. And thanks for this guy Dougger, who clearly was taught by the women in his life how to level with the women in his life . . . and I have reaped all the benefits. Well, they’re mostly benefits. Sometimes not. Occasionally. It really depends on the situation.
Ken and Will—I’m so lucky that the warm welcome you gave me never seemed to wear out. Your goodness, and that of your father, helped me believe early on in the magic of the Brunts; a decade in, I know it was real.
Huge props to my editor, Matt Harper, of Harper Collins, whose refusal to offer any false praise was actually very irritating but right in line with my own values and did, in the end, make this a much better book. (I think he’s related to my mother.) To Brian Murray, Lisa Sharkey, Tina Andreadis, and all of the good folks at Harper
, thank you for your unwavering support.
To Ada Calhoun, I will be forever grateful. Your ability to help me see my own life in the arc of a story was clarifying and even therapeutic. M’Lady Amy would be proud.
Speaking of M’Lady, my thanks to Amy—the woman without whom everything would be so different.
To my pal Dr. Phil, who through the airwaves one night found me, unhappy, on a sofa in Chicago: Oprah says the people she’s helped are her legacy. That’s also true for you, and I am beyond grateful to count myself as one of them.
To all of my friends at The Kelly File who kept the show afloat during one hell of a year, thanks for being in the foxhole with me. I am extremely proud to work with you, you cynical mo-fos.
Tom, Abby, and Emily, thank you for taking every risk with me, and for shoring me up whenever I’ve wavered. You don’t get anywhere near enough credit for your strength. Tommy, I can’t think of a man better suited to take the baton and run.
Janice Dean and Dana Perino, two of the most beautiful women I know—ever heard the term “magnificent badass”? Doug once found it on a greeting card. I think it belongs to you.
To Chris and Vincenza, for all the nine-year-old-boy humor and haircuts and lip gloss, and for never letting me “roam alone”—mille grazie. You turn the sow’s ear into a silk purse better than anyone, but it’s your love and friendship that get me through the roughest days.
To Debra, who encouraged me to “rise”—thank you for the fire hose when everything was aflame. Who the hell would have thought some hedge fund guru could bring calm and serenity into a person’s life?
To Rebecca and Andrea, who remind me what true friendship is all about, and who accepted me before I had actually figured it out.
True gratitude to Willis Goldsmith, who has always had my back, and always believed I could do it all, whatever “it” was. (And who graciously chose not to make a big deal out of that deer-fur-in-the-rental-car-grill that time I was late for trial. The important thing is, no one was hurt. Well, no one who is a human.)
