Getting Real

by Gretchen Carlson

  One evening, ten months into our relationship, Casey showed up on my doorstep with a surprise. He sat down on the couch and rooted around in his pocket, pulling out a ring on a chain. It was his University of Michigan championship ring. He dangled it in front of me and said, “I can’t afford a ring right now, but will this do for a commitment?” I melted. I knew it was a pretty big step for him, and it really was a commitment. That ring was important to him! I began wearing it around my neck.

  That Christmas we planned to fly to Minnesota to visit my parents and then go to Columbus on Christmas Day to see Casey’s parents. Unbeknownst to me, Casey was planning to ask me to marry him while we were in Minnesota. He had ordered the ring, and because of last-minute timing, the jeweler arranged to deliver it to him at the airport. Casey told the jeweler they had to make the transaction with the highest amount of secrecy. “Gretchen is an investigator,” he said. “She knows everything. If she sees you, she’ll figure it out.” They agreed to meet in the men’s room outside security.

  We got to the airport, and we were running late. Casey said, “I have to go to the bathroom.” I was annoyed. “What? Come on, we have to go through security. There’s no time.”

  He was in the bathroom forever, and I was getting pissed. Apparently the two men crowded into a single stall—one stall, four feet. That must have raised a few eyebrows!

  Finally, Casey shoved the ring in his bag and came out. But then he was worried that the security officer would see it and make a comment, so he was staring bug-eyed at the guy, like, “Please, keep my secret.”

  When we got to the gate, Casey said, “I have to go to the bathroom.” I stared at him with disbelief. “What are you talking about? You just went to the bathroom.” But of course he hadn’t.

  He kept the ring in his pocket the whole time, so I wouldn’t see it. On our first night in Minnesota, he quietly asked my parents for permission to marry their daughter. He told them he was going to ask me the next day. I was completely oblivious to the drama going on around me. My investigative skills were on vacation.

  The following day we went to the Mall of America, which was relatively new at the time. We were planning to shop and then meet my sister and her boyfriend at a Minnesota Timberwolves basketball game in downtown Minneapolis. It was a long day and there was a blizzard expected.

  I called home at one point to check with my mom about the storm prediction. She was acting very strange, asking me leading questions: “How’s your day? Did anything special happen?”

  “Uh, no, not really. We’re just shopping. We ate at the Rainforest Café.”

  “I hope it’s a fantastic day for you,” she said brightly.

  “Okay. See you later.” I hung up and joked to Casey, “My mom sure is hyper today.”

  We drove home that night in a blizzard. The snow was piling up and I just wanted to get there. Then, at the top of the driveway, with snow blowing all around us, Casey stopped the car and pulled the parking brake.

  “What are you doing?” I asked. Casey was starting to get on my nerves. Didn’t he realize we were in the middle of a blizzard? Then he reached into his pocket and took out the ring. “Gretchen,” he said solemnly, as the wind and snow pounded against the car, “you are the woman I want to spend the rest of my life with. Will you marry me?”

  I burst into tears, saying, “Yes! Yes!” and trying to hug him across the seats. Finally he said, “Your mom knows, so we’d better go in.” I laughed, realizing that was the reason she’d been acting so weird with me earlier.

  We drove down the driveway into the garage, and as we got out of the car, the door to the house flew open. Mom appeared holding a bottle of champagne and a camera. “Congratulations!” she cried, snapping a picture.

  We call that picture “The Engagement Photo.” Casey looks wide-eyed and slightly manic. I look stunned. Mom was beside herself with joy, unable to keep the secret a minute longer. It’s a good thing Casey stopped in the driveway to pop the question, otherwise my mother would have beat him to the punch. She was so excited, she just couldn’t help herself.

  We went inside, opened the champagne, and stayed up late talking to Mom and Dad. Mom was eager to be in charge of the wedding planning, and I was glad to let her because I didn’t have the time. The next day we flew to Columbus and told Casey’s parents on Christmas Day.

  It’s a good thing my mom was such a great entertainer—not to mention being organized. I went back to work and turned over the affair to her. Our wedding took place on October 4, 1997, at 4:00 p.m. It was an unseasonably warm sixty-five degrees and brilliantly sunny. It was very special to be married by my grandfather in his church, where I’d grown up and where he’d married my mom. As he always had, my grandfather made it deeply personal, and I know my tears that day were in part because of the beautiful feeling of sharing this moment with him.

  My heart swelled at being surrounded by my family and also by all the people who meant so much to me. Thelma sat at the piano, accompanying Benny Kim for a violin solo of “Adoration,” by Felix Borowski, the first piece I’d ever performed in public. He also played “Méditation,” by Jules Massenet, which had special meaning for me because my grandmother Hyllengren had often played it, as it was one of her favorites. Dorothy Benham, the 1977 Miss America from Minnesota, sang “Thanks Be to Thee” by Handel and “Because” by d’Hardelot.

  My former teacher Jack Nabedrick read a passage from the Old Testament. My bridesmaids encircled me—the women who had meant so much during different times of my life. There was Molly, of course, and Kris, as well as my friend Chele from Stanford, and Karen from Cleveland. Then Patti, who orchestrated our first meeting, and Lisa, my colleague from Cincinnati. It was perfect in every way.

  Our reception was held downtown at the Minneapolis Club, which was housed in a gorgeous old mansion. My mom had set up twinkling lights everywhere and the room looked magical. When we first arrived, we had a mini-crisis because my mom had overbooked. Even though the club only held 425 people, she had invited 440, telling me not to worry because we could expect a 10 to 20 percent drop-off, as if she were an airline booker. However, there was no drop-off—everybody showed up, and we had to jam a table in the hall. The kitchen was scrambling to come up with food for the extras—like salmon, which definitely wasn’t on the menu.

  Thelma’s son Gordy was in a jazz band, and they played for the reception. It was a high-spirited, loving affair, but as the evening drew to a close I began to feel as if I was coming down with something. I had a double earache and a horrible sore throat. Luckily I got a prescription from Molly’s dad before we left for our honeymoon.

  Leave it to me, I was sick during my honeymoon. I had a terrible earache the day I visited the Vatican. But nothing could dampen the joy I felt being with Casey and knowing that with a wonderful job and a husband I loved, my life was as close to perfection as even a perfectionist like me could imagine.

  Then I came home and got fired.

  • • •

  The Cleveland Indians were in the World Series that year, so we returned from our honeymoon to great fanfare in the city. They were up against the Florida Marlins, and the knuckle-biting series ended with the Indians losing in the seventh game. In spite of the disappointment of coming so close and then failing, the city of Cleveland threw the Indians a big parade after the series. Denise and I were scheduled to do a live broadcast sitting on top of a huge news truck, and it seemed as if the whole city was planning to attend.

  A couple of days before the event I got a call from my agent, who told me the general manager wanted to see me after the parade. “Something might be up,” she said.

  “Do you know something I don’t know?” I asked. She assured me she had no idea. I, of course, was suspicious. When the GM asks for a meeting, it’s usually not good news.

  What I remember most about parade day was feeling enormous pressure. It was probably the
biggest event of my career in Cleveland, with the most potential viewers, and I had to perform flawlessly for hours on end while wondering if I was going to get fired. Performing under pressure was a familiar situation for me, and once again I called on that inner reserve I developed as a young girl on the stage. I made it through the day, showing a face of confidence and excitement to the viewers and the Indians fans. I’m sure no one guessed my inner turmoil.

  Afterward, I returned to the station for my meeting. I walked into the general manager’s office with every nerve on edge. My instincts were correct.

  “The two-female anchor concept isn’t working,” he told me bluntly. “Unfortunately, we don’t have another position for you at the station, based on your current salary level.”

  “Oh.” My stomach clenched as I realized my worst fears were being realized. “What’s going to happen to the broadcast?” I asked.

  “Denise is staying on and we’re replacing you with a man,” he replied. Then he added, “Now that you’re married, you’ll be okay.”

  I was too stunned to respond, but later it was those words—Now that you’re married, you’ll be okay—that upset me. I was so disappointed that after I’d spent four years at his station, he still had no idea who I was. I was a professional who had dedicated years to establishing my career, and he had brushed me off with a gratuitous remark. I’d never heard of a man losing his job and being told, “Don’t worry. You’re married. You’ll be okay.” My career had zero to do with whether or not my husband also worked. It had everything to do with personal identity, personal goals, and making the most of my life.

  In the early days after getting fired, I held myself together with the understanding that it was just an executive decision. One of us had to go and it was logical that I was the one. Denise was the hometown girl, she had been on air there for years, and everyone knew who she was. It never occurred to me that the media would portray it differently. I remember sitting in my house those first days and getting a shock as I read the headlines: “Bye-Bye Miss American Pie” and “There She Goes Miss America.” I didn’t understand why they were saying all those awful things about me. It hurt and felt humiliating.

  I’d always thought of my career as a clear path, with all the moves and sacrifices serving a greater goal. I understood rationally that job security in the news business was nonexistent, but even when I’d made the risky move to the format of two female anchors, I hadn’t given any real thought to what would happen if it didn’t succeed. Now, derailed from my path, I felt stunned and alone. No one rushed to my support as I sat in the little house Casey and I had bought to start our new life. I discovered a sad truth that when you’re fired people don’t reach out to you, even though it’s the time when you need them the most. I don’t think it’s because they’re uncaring. They’re just uncomfortable with sadness. They don’t know what to say, so they say nothing. I’ve seen it happen for people who have lost loved ones, and it’s the same distancing I experienced getting fired. People can’t get past their own discomfort. The experience taught me an important lesson, and I now make a point of reaching out to people who are suffering a loss. I know how much it means to them.

  My overwhelming emotion during that time was embarrassment. I had always been a perfectionist about everything I did, so now I thought of myself as a failure. It may not have been objectively true, but it was my emotional reality. I didn’t want to leave the house, because I imagined people looking at me and thinking, “She blew it.” The only safe place was my gym, where I rigorously worked out to keep my head on straight. Even in that relative haven, there were constant questions: “What are you going to do? Have you found anything yet?” I grimaced and said, “I’m working on it.” And I was. I spent hours every day on my job search, calling every single person in my Rolodex, coming up empty.

  That experience is the reason I’ve always had great empathy for people who are out of work. I understand the feelings of guilt and shame, which are mostly undeserved. I would never say that a jobless person didn’t work hard enough or try hard enough to find work. I know better. I often think of all the people on the outside desperate to find a way back in, and my heart goes out to them. The worst thing we can do is add to their sense of shame, which, trust me, is already great.

  People often don’t understand how the humiliation of getting fired can burrow into your consciousness for years to come, even when you go on to be successful. Long after I had reestablished my career and was doing well, I never told people I’d been fired. I have always believed that failure is necessary to success, but when it came to talking about this one big failure, I just couldn’t do it. Then one day not so long ago, I was writing a motivational speech and the thought popped into my head: Why had I never talked about getting fired? I added the story to my speech, and I’ve openly talked about it on my show. The importance of reaching out to others and helping them get past their disappointments became more important than any residual shame I felt. But it took me a long time to get to that point.

  Being newly married complicated things, because I knew I wouldn’t be able to find a comparable news job in Cleveland. And I had my emotions to contend with. Casey and I were supposed to be in a honeymoon period, and suddenly we were in hell—or at least that’s the way it felt to me. Casey tried to be supportive, but I was often frustrated with him, especially when he advised me to consider doing something different. “You’re so talented, you can recreate yourself,” he’d say. Or, “Why don’t you go to law school? You always wanted to do that.” Or, “Just start interviewing at companies. You could do something corporate.” He meant well, but I resisted the idea that I should just give up on my chosen career because of one setback. God knows, I’d sacrificed plenty, moving three times already to follow my dream. I wasn’t about to quit.

  The question of identity was ever present. I was painfully aware that we most often define ourselves by our professions. People ask, “What do you do?” not “Who are you?” Yet if you define yourself by what you do or by how you look or any other external measure, you will collapse completely if you lose it. And that was what I experienced. Looking back, I wish I’d had the courage to pick up my violin during that year. I’d lost my way, but maybe I could have found it again if I had relied on the thing that was me through and through. Playing the violin was the closest I came to touching my soul, but at that point in my life it represented pain—the pain of my choices, the fear of my failure. So I left it in the case. At a time when I could have reclaimed the core of who I was—and let the beautiful notes lift me and move me—I chose to be fearful and unhappy. It was a missed opportunity. I wish I could go back and remake that year as a process of self-discovery with my violin. It was one of the biggest mistakes I’ve made.

  My only goal was to get a job, and the opportunities were few. I had a chance with a station in San Francisco, but I knew that would be too big a move for my marriage, so I turned it down. Finally, after a year had passed and I was looking ahead to my second Christmas without work, I got an interview with a station in Dallas. Since I knew that my former boss and friend Kim Godwin-Webb was the news director at a competing station there, I called her. “I’m coming down to Dallas for an interview,” I said. “You and I had a great relationship. Do you have anything for me?”

  She said she might, so I headed to Dallas with two job interviews—an abundance of riches. When I got offers from both, I chose Kim’s station, the NBC affiliate KXAS. I knew Kim respected me and we had a good relationship, and I liked the station. I was hired as a reporter and a weekend anchor.

  Of course, accepting a job in Dallas meant that Casey and I would be separated after only one year of marriage. I’d never thought of myself as having a commuter marriage, but that’s what we faced for nine months until Casey moved to Dallas. It wasn’t easy, but we were both willing to do it. It sure beat me staying home crying! Moving to Dallas might not have been my first choice, but as I alwa
ys tell kids today who want careers in the news, “If you don’t want to pay the price, sacrifice, and have a lot of lonely nights, wondering, ‘Why am I here and not making any money?’ then don’t go into this business.”

  I kissed Casey goodbye and moved to Dallas the week of Christmas, and I lived in a residence hotel for a month before getting an apartment. I was determined to make up for lost time and get back in the game. Gearing up for the new challenge, I pulled out my old pep talk, thinking, “Okay, here I go again. I’m going to work harder than anybody else, try and be the best that I can possibly be in this job, because here’s my shot to be back in the game.” It turned out to be an incredible experience, with opportunities to cover big regional stories for NBC. There were a lot of them during my time at KXAS. Columbine, the dragging murder of James Byrd, major tornadoes in Oklahoma. Under Kim’s leadership I was also able to do important in-depth reports. The one I’m proudest of is the thirty-part series on domestic violence that led the evening news every night for a month, which earned me the American Women in Radio and Television “Best Series” Award. That series was a daring choice for a news division at the time and I learned so much as I was educating the viewers. Why do women stay in abusive relationships? Why don’t they just leave? I came to understand the complexity of the issue and I was so proud to be the reporter allowed to dedicate so much time to it. I know in the end we saved many lives.

  To my surprise, I came to love Dallas. It was a gleaming modern city, and the weather was great. It lived up to its reputation for being big. Everything was supersized. My closet was bigger than most studio apartments in New York City! I was busy but lonely, missing Casey. The commuter end of the marriage didn’t work out so well, because I worked weekends, which would have been the most logical time to travel. Add to that the fact that air travel between Dallas and Cleveland was difficult, and we’d sometimes go several weeks without seeing one another. I was ecstatic when Casey moved to Dallas and we lived in the same place again. Together, we took advantage of all Dallas had to offer.