Ted Turner never knew it, but he changed my life.

It was his media empire that brought me to Atlanta, for what was meant to be a 10-month internship that became 28 years (and counting) of my life I never could have imagined.

I met my husband at Cartoon Network. Some of my son’s first memories are on the Techwood campus. I made the funniest, most creative, and kindest lifelong friends in the halls of Turner Broadcasting.

The number of Ted legends told over my career there are too numerous to list here. A few that stand out:

-- A Turner veteran told a group of us once that when Ted wanted to launch CNN, all of his executives told him it was a bad idea. He asked them each to schedule time with him to talk through the reasons why he shouldn’t do it. They obliged: It was too expensive, they had no bureaus, it would be impossible to get distribution. Ted listened thoughtfully, then at the end of the day declared, “Well, I’m doin’ it anyway!”

-- Endless anecdotes of Ted living in “the mansion,” the original building on the Techwood campus, in the early days of the company and walking around campus in his bathrobe.

-- Someone who knew the owner of a local dry cleaner in Atlanta told a story about Ted’s clothes being dropped off one week, and in one of his pants pockets was a list divided into two columns: Good and Bad. Under Bad was a litany of complaints, one after the other. Under the Good header was just one item: “Never been richer.”

-- A former colleague once pointed to a building and said, “Ted and I used to smoke pot on that rooftop.”

For so many years, the Turner campus felt like home to me, and I find myself mourning Ted’s death as if I’ve lost a family member. People would always ask if I ever met him (does passing him on an escalator in CNN Center count?), but even though I never got to tell him directly, I’m forever grateful for everything he made possible in my life.

Thank you, Ted.

Her birthday was the day after mine. She would always tell the story: “Grandma thought I would be born on April Fools’ Day, but I fooled her and was born on the 2nd. I thought you would be born on my birthday, but you fooled me and were born on the 1st.”

It turns out her life would both begin and end in April. She died on the 20th, which that year also happened to be Easter Sunday. So most years, when those two days are separate, I have two distinct days of remembering her final hours.

I’m not a person of faith. In the moments after my mom died, a family member commented, “We’ll see her again.” The intensity of my grief was rooted in the certainty that we will not.

However.

There are moments when I sense her presence, when I pick up little signs that she’s still around keeping an eye on things. Most of these have to do with nature, particularly birds, but right now, my mom has clearly taken the form of this frog.

I have a small stand-up garden box on our deck and had brought in my watering can to fill it when I sensed movement out of the corner of my eye. I turned to see this little face staring back at me.

She* had been hiding inside the watering can, and as the water filled it, she jumped up, no doubt wondering what the eff was going on.

*OK, don’t kill me, I uploaded this pic to Claude and asked if it’s male or female, and Claude seems to think she’s female. I apologize for the trees and/or habitats I’ve helped destroy by seeking this information. However, I’ve had to research AI tools as I continue my job search, and, well, that’s a whole other story for a future post.

We tried moving her into a Tupperware container to take her back outside, but she crawled back in the can. We took her outside and gently tried to shake her out, but she wasn’t budging. I eventually poked my finger in and she leapt out right at me. Once I stopped screaming, I saw she had made her way over to a chair on the deck.

I figured she was thrilled to be free and would be on her merry way. But the next day, when I went to check the watering can, guess who I found…

So, clearly she’s not going anywhere, and this is now her watering can. Given that she arrived around my 50th birthday last week, and appears to be spending all of April with me, the only logical conclusion is that this is my mom coming to visit and let me know everything will be OK. (Also, I’ve seen her make this face.)

Here are some of things I think she wants me to know:

• Fifty is actually an impossibly young age, and I need to remember that someday I’ll wish I was 50 again.

• If I had the same amount of time she had, I would only have 17 more years to live. Do the things you want to do.

• I should take better care of myself, exercise more and eat healthier foods. Your health can change on a dime, so do what you can to improve it while you have the opportunity.

• That said, shit happens. My mom was in the best physical health of her life when she was diagnosed with lung cancer, likely caused by the then-unknown presence of radon under my parents’ house.

• She understands how much I love Archie, and she understands that I now understand how much she loved me.

• The joy of life is in the mundane, the routine days when you sleepily make breakfast for your child before school, hang out in the kitchen together while you make dinner, sort through stacks of homework and art projects, wash their water bottle, sign their permission slips, kiss their freshly shampooed hair before tucking them in.

When my parents sold our childhood home after I graduated college, my mom and I sat at the kitchen table crying, mourning not only the move but the end of that specific period of time, that version of our family. I remember her saying, “I told Dad, I wish I could go back and relive just one week of those days, but I don’t think I could, because it wouldn’t be enough.”

I think about that moment a lot, especially now as I’m in the midst of those same days with Archie. He only has a few weeks left of elementary school before he starts middle school in the fall, and I’m trying to savor not just the special events, the recitals and the spelling bees and the science fairs, but the regular days. “Life happens on a Tuesday” and all that.

On the small chance this frog is not actually my mom, and simply an animal who’s surviving any way it can, I’ve decided it doesn’t matter–the lesson is the same. The moment has felt profound, and even if I don’t believe my mom is literally still out there somewhere, through her love and legacy, she will always be right here.

Ok, I know what some of you are thinking. Introducing? This has always been my impression of you.

But for me, I’ve typically viewed myself as a good person. I don’t make trouble, I tend to put other people’s needs ahead of mine, and I generally try to be nice to everyone I meet.

In fact, that was exactly what my mom always told me: Just be nice to everyone. You never know who might be able to help you later.

On a basic level, this is decent advice. It’s true that you never know someone’s background, or what they’re dealing with on that particular day, or the opportunities they may be able to offer down the road. And because we’re all human, everyone deserves kindness and respect.

However, it’s taken me far too long to realize that kindness and respect are not the same as niceness. And that in my pursuit of being nice to everyone else, I haven’t been very kind to myself.

Which is why I’m excited to announce that I’m making a bold shift in my identity, and will henceforth be approaching life from the perspective of a selfish asshole.

Well, maybe that’s too strong. But during a transitional time like what I’m experiencing – and as I approach a milestone birthday – it’s common to take a beat and reconsider who we are and what we truly want from life.

Having this time off has woken me up to how burned out I had become. Not just in my full-time job, but in all the other time around it.

I remember a point a while back when I told my husband, “All of my free time is dedicated to other people.” Writing the weekly school newsletter, volunteering for a classroom event, helping a friend with a project, planning next week’s dinners, shopping for holiday gifts: It felt like every minute of my free time was accounted for, and none of it was for me.

In my mind, being nice meant never saying no and certainly not asking other people for help. Free time automatically meant availability. If I give and give and give of myself, I thought, I’m building good karma and making people happy.

To me, setting boundaries was selfish. Declining a request was something only a jerk would do. Speaking up and advocating for yourself? Omg, what an absolute asshole.

While the job search is certainly stressful, the months since my layoff have also been rejuvenating and eye-opening. I had been pouring from an empty cup for far too long. I’m realizing how deeply I need alone time, that I’m a committed introvert for whom quiet periods are not a luxury, but as essential as food or sleep.

This has meant I’ve been slow to return phone calls and less responsive to messages. I’m taking more time for analog hobbies like reading, baking, and cross-stitch. I’m savoring long, lazy coffees at a cafe doing crossword puzzles. And, yes, I enjoy the occasional afternoon nap. (Clearly, I’m ready for retirement when it comes.)

In short, I’m being quite selfish with my time. But I’m seeing it pay off in ways that matter. I’m more present in conversations with my husband. My patience is higher for my son’s ADHD symptoms. I feel rested and intentional instead of plodding through my days in a fog. Overall, I just feel… better.

So it’s not so much that I’m becoming an asshole, but more about reframing my perception of what that means. Putting on your own oxygen mask first does not make you an asshole. Improving your mental health does not make you an asshole. Having a backbone does not make you an asshole. Setting priorities and focusing your energy on them does not make you an asshole.

These things actually make you less of an asshole, because they help you be your best, for yourself and others. Whatever my next opportunity is, I’m going to be more ruthless about protecting my time, energy, and attention. And the asshole in me feels pretty great about that.

(But only if this is OK with you all. If not, no worries!)

Dear [hiring manager and/or recruiter and/or AI bot]:

I’m [emotional word conveying enthusiasm but not crazy-sounding] to apply for the [job title two levels below its listed responsibilities] role at [company that’s changing everything, according to their website].

Your company’s work at the intersection of [technical buzzword] and [artsy buzzword] resonates deeply with my passion for [affordable healthcare]. I particularly connect with your corporate values, including [something about teamwork], [something about taking risks], [something about storytelling], and [something about dreaming big].

My experience at [previous company this new place has never heard of] matches the responsibilities of this role almost exactly, because I have literally edited my resumé to mirror them and thus please the AI screening bot. I have expertise in [verbatim phrase from job description] and [another verbatim phrase from job description], and I thrive on [yet another verbatim phrase from job description].

In my last role, I drove results including a [fudged number you sort of remember because you couldn’t access actual data after your layoff] percent increase in [metric that might matter to this company maybe? I mean is anyone actually reading this or does it get sent straight to a void and if I wrote that I’m also passionate in my belief that the Moon landing was fake would any real human person even notice?].

I’m [emotional word conveying interest but not desperation] to talk more about how my skills might be the right fit for this [single role that’s actually encompassing three distinct jobs] position. Please feel free to reach out [anytime, like… anytime].

[Appropriate signoff greeting that’s professional but warm but also doesn’t sound like a letter to your grandma],

[Name of a very good human who’s doing their best and is loved no matter what and don’t you forget it]

Much of the country is in the path of a massive winter storm this weekend, and for people like me who live in the South and aren’t used to these conditions, it can be stressful figuring out how to prepare.

Since I’m originally from the Midwest, I wanted to share some of my first-hand tips for what you’ll need to buy and steps to take so you can be winter weather-ready.

• Chips: One bag per person per day, planning for at least 5 days

• Wine: Enough to take a sip each time your child says, “I’m bored.”

• Instant coffee: Have granules available to mix into tepid water so you can desperately enjoy the beverage you claim you could quit anytime.

• Chocolate chip cookies: Bake a batch on Thursday. Realize this was way too early and eat three-quarters of the batch by Friday afternoon.

• Beef sticks: Buy this food you’ve literally never eaten in your life because maybe an ice storm will make you an entirely different person.

• Books and journals: Decide this is a perfect opportunity for a digital detox and use the time to read and write.

• Portable chargers: Get these babies ready because yeah sure you’re going to read and write.

• Terra cotta planter: The internet says you can generate heat by placing this over a candle and the internet is a bottomless source of good advice.

• Gas: Make sure you have a full tank so you can use your car to power your phone when your portable chargers have died and you need to check on the newest Brooklyn Beckham memes.

• Layers of comfy clothes: Stay warm in sweats, hoodies, and thick socks, as if this isn’t what you’ve been wearing every day since Halloween.

• Beeswax, furs, and spices: Gather these now in case the storm causes the collapse of traditional currency and you need items for barter.

For actual helpful tips, check out this guide from the National Weather Service. Hope everyone stays safe and warm wherever you are!

In last week’s post, I mentioned “job hugging,” the trend of people clinging to their current roles for fear of facing a challenging labor market.

Some workers are biding their time in anticipation of a future layoff, feeling they can at least get the cushion of a severance package as they look for something new. Others are pushing through a sense of panic, doing everything they can to avoid being let go when their company announces the next “restructuring.”

Those fears are justified. Because for all the wonderful opportunities this type of change can provide long-term, the immediate impact is, well, pretty shitty. There are a lot of steps between the back exit of your old job and the front door of your next great success, and those first few steps don’t feel very good. At all.

We’re now coming up on three months since I was part of a large-scale layoff at my previous company. This is the second time I’ve gone through this type of career transition, and based on conversations with others, I’m fortunate the number is that low.

After my first job loss, I talked to a counselor who encouraged me to give myself permission to mourn the loss the same way I would a death. And she was right.

In fact, I’ve told people in some ways, losing my job was a harder process than losing my mother, who passed away in 2014. Obviously, her death is more significant and affects me more deeply, but I didn’t have an identity crisis when my mom died. I didn’t question my self-worth. Plus, the death of a parent is a socially accepted and even “celebrated” loss. Nobody brings you a casserole when you’re out of work.

Here’s how I’ve found myself navigating the proverbial five stages of grief after losing a job:

• Denial: You know what? GOOD. I wasn’t really happy there anyway. Things will grind to a halt without me there. There’s absolutely nothing I’ll miss about that place. I don’t need them. Something even better is right around the corner.

• Anger: Why did this happen to me? Where did I go wrong? I can’t believe everything’s just moving on so quickly without me. If my role isn’t necessary now, was it ever necessary? I feel like such a fool. I thought people liked and respected me—was that all just bullshit? I’m a good person. What did I do to deserve this?

• Bargaining: Actually, I needed this. Now I have time to do all the things I’ve always wanted to do. I can exercise and get in shape. I can try my hand at some craft projects. I’ll finally write that book. In fact, I feel sorry for all of those people stuck in corporate jobs. They don’t realize how sad their lives are, chained to their desks and checking email at all hours of the night. Sure, they may have the security of a steady paycheck, but I have something even better: freedom to do whatever I want. Yeah, this is better.

• Depression: I’m wasting my time. I haven’t gotten in shape. I haven’t done any of those fun craft projects. I’m barely reading books, let alone writing one. And it’s because I feel like doing any of those things just advertises the fact that I’m unemployed. Only losers with lots of time on their hands do that kind of stuff. And that’s what I am—a loser. For all of the talk about how smart and talented I am, I don’t even get replies to 90% of the applications I send out, and the replies I do get are rejections. This isn’t working. I feel lost. I’m drifting farther away from my old, confident self. I’m lonely. All of which makes it even harder to motivate myself to be productive during the day. Everyone back at work is so busy, so important. Meanwhile, I wince every time I swipe my credit card, wondering when my bank balance will start ticking back up instead of down.

• Acceptance: I’ll let you know when I get there.

I’m kidding. Mostly. I can’t say I’m 100% over it. And maybe “acceptance” doesn’t mean being over it. But I’m in a much better place emotionally than I was a few weeks ago.

The blow of this job loss has been softened by the fact that several of my peers were also affected, and we quickly formed a support network to navigate our next steps together. I’m at an age where I’m confident in my identity as a person, not as an employee. And as I read headlines that seem to get worse each day, I remind myself to pause in gratitude for all the things I take for granted and realize I could have it much, much worse.

During transitions like these, it will surprise you the people who reach out with exactly the right thing to say. A friend of mine in the UK whom I haven’t chatted with in a while reached out after hearing my news and shared his own struggles with finding work over these past couple of years:

The world is in such a mess at the moment. Jobs are so fragile and there’s so much uncertainty. But if the last 2 years has taught me anything, it’s that worrying doesn’t help the situation in any way shape or form. That’s super easy to say I know, but I’ve had so much time to worry about work, and it’s demoralising.

I don’t know anything about your situation but do try to see this as a little time out. An extended holiday, time for you, time for the family and friends. A good thing.

My heart goes out to everyone who’s had that life-changing meeting with HR or who’s white-knuckling it at work each day, dreading the moment it might arrive. For those who do go through it, you’ll spend weeks replaying that conversation in your head, recalling the weeks leading up to it, reminiscing about the years before.

You might not know exactly where you’re headed next, but you’ll be OK. You’ll find yourself overwhelmed by how much love surrounds you, and how many people will be right there with you for the ride.

As I discussed in my first post about closing the laptop, during times of uncertainty, it’s tempting to throw ourselves into our work. This is particularly true if you’re job hugging, squeezing your arms tightly around your current position–even if it’s no longer rewarding–for fear of facing a difficult and disheartening job market.

But the emotions you feel during the day don’t automatically switch off at 5 p.m. You carry that mindset into your most valuable hours, the ones spent with family and friends. If you burn yourself out at work, you have little energy left for the people who deserve it most.

Whether you call it setting boundaries, managing your mental wellness, or maintaining work-life balance, it’s essential that you carve out space to stay human in your job. Here are three ways I’ve approached this in my career.

1. I set time aside for myself, away from my desk, during the workday.

I started my career during a time when smoking was still a relatively common habit. A few of my colleagues would leave their desk several times a day to go outside and smoke, and I remember thinking, “Boy, it must be nice to have a reason to take tons of breaks during the day.” Well, guess what: I could (and should) have been taking those breaks, too!

The 1998 movie “A Civil Action” is a largely forgettable film, but one scene has always stuck with me as inspiration for setting aside dedicated time for myself during the workday. A young clerk tracks down Robert Duvall’s character during his lunch hour to deliver a brief, and Duvall delivers a short monologue about the importance of this time to himself.

“You know, if I were you, I’d make it a point of taking that hour or so away from all the noise and insanity of this place… I’d find a place for myself where I could go that was relatively quiet and peaceful. Have a sandwich, read a magazine, maybe listen to a game out at Fenway if one was on. And I’d make sure everyone knew I didn’t want to be disturbed during that hour of sole solitude. Because that would be my time, my own private time. Which no one if they had any sense of self-preservation at all would dare interrupt. If I were you.”

Maybe it speaks to the power of Robert Duvall that this scene became a bit of a north star for me, and I’ve always tried to set aside lunch as personal time away from my desk. Even working from home, I eat lunch at a different table in my office, turned away from my laptop. I usually watch a TV show on my phone, which helps resist the temptation to doomscroll as I eat.

I’ve also learned to reframe these breaks not as me slacking or putting off work, but as necessary recharging so I can be better at my work when I get back to it.

2. I don’t create or respond to “Tom and Jerry emergencies.”

During my time at Cartoon Network, we had a retreat that included a conversation between our network president and the company CEO, Phil Kent. Phil was discussing how to keep work in perspective and recalled a story from his days working in the home video division. (Kids, home video is a type of physical media you used to have to purchase and play in a machine in order to watch content whenever you wanted.)

He said he was in a meeting when someone rushed in and said, “Sorry to interrupt, but we have a Tom and Jerry emergency.” Phil said he took a beat and told the person, “Listen to the words you just said. There is no such thing as a ‘Tom and Jerry emergency.’”

He’s right. Unless your name is Dr. Robby and you work in The Pitt, chances are the situations that arise during your workday are not actual life-and-death emergencies. As a leader working in media, I always try to set a tone that our work is important, but rarely worthy of panic or crisis mode. Unnecessary stress physiologically prevents your brain from performing good work. Or, as a former manager of mine once succinctly put it: “You can’t be creative when your ass is on fire.”

3. I talk like a human.

Communication is an essential facet of what makes us human. Only by communicating clearly can we build true connections. Filling a conversation with jargon or buzzwords doesn’t just muddy the waters of the work being done; it nudges us further and further apart as people.

My leadership style has always centered on clarity: People do their best work when they understand the goal and when team members share a defined purpose. I avoid jargon and acronyms, and when they do get used in a meeting, I make sure everyone in the room understands what they mean. If I don’t know, I ask. (Often this is followed by Slacks from other team members saying, “Thank you, I was afraid I was the only one who didn’t know.”)

I approach every conversation with recognition that I’m talking to other humans. Not a job title, not a seniority status, not a means to an end–a real human with whom I share far more similarities than differences.

I have a friend whose job involves interviewing A-list actors and filmmakers. I asked her once if it’s intimidating, and she told me, “No, they’re all people doing a job and they just want to get back home to their dog.”

This insight has helped me immeasurably in how I approach conversations, particularly with new people. We can tend to place too much pressure on ourselves to “wow” someone in these moments or assume we’re a bother taking up this person’s time. Instead, if we approach any conversation as a chance to connect on a human level, realizing we’re all just out here doing our best and looking forward to getting back to the people and things we love most at the end of the day, it immediately lowers the stakes–and allows us to put our best self forward.

I’d love to hear from you in the comments or directly on ways you’re staying human, both at work and elsewhere.

Me? I cry at Christmas trees.

Specifically, the big one, the queen mother of Christmas trees, the giant tree at Rockefeller Center. Every year, I still make appointment viewing out of NBC’s “Christmas at Rockefeller Center” special and sit through an hour and 58 minutes of middling pop performances waiting for the real event: the countdown to the lighting of the tree.

The ice rink goes dark. A drum roll starts. The anchors from the “Today” show, Reba McEntire, and some rich person you’ve never heard of stand together in front of a big red button. The crowd starts counting down and suddenly–LIGHTS! CHEERS! MUSIC!

A tree full of twinkly lights, a crowd of people united in the holiday spirit, a chorus proclaiming “Joy to the World”?

At its core, it shouldn’t be that big of a deal. It’s just a tree (there are literally trillions of them on Earth) and a switch of electricity that wasn’t there before. But it gets me every. single. time.

I think it’s the humanity of the whole ritual. The work it took to transport a tree that huge, the people who spent weeks putting up that many lights, and the collective experience of people gathering for that single moment. You don’t have to be religious to recognize the divinity of these tiny steps that add up to something bigger.

I had a similar feeling watching the new documentary “The Merchants of Joy” on Prime Video. If you’re looking for something to watch with visiting family next week, this may be just the thing.

It turns out just five families sell all of the fresh Christmas trees in New York City each year, and the documentary follows the surprisingly fascinating process of growing, shipping, and selling Christmas trees, including the annual auction for the best corners and spots across the city.

While the documentary initially plays up some of the cutthroat tactics each business uses to edge out their competitors, the film is ultimately a love letter to Christmas in New York and a celebration of the sentimentality and magic that Christmas trees represent for so many of us.

While the work can be grueling, we see that these families stay with it because they love the season–and the people they spend it with. I was a puddle by the end of it.

It’s been a hard year for us humans. Maybe Christmas trees make me cry because they represent the small joys we seek out amidst the chaos. The metaphor is so simple: Look for the light and celebrate when you find it.

Soon it will be time for me to cry over the New Year’s Eve ball drop. (Yes, I have a problem.) However you’re spending the next couple of weeks, I hope you find time to feel human. See you back here in 2026. 🌲

What happens when you close the laptop?

A few months ago, after navigating my team through a round of layoffs – and after having directly delivered some of the “impact conversations” myself – I was talking with a colleague about this very unwelcome experience.

They told me there was a particular moment they always think about, specifically for remote employees, right after the call is over: the moment they close the laptop.

“That person now has to turn and tell someone they just lost their job.”

We talked about how it could be turning to a spouse or partner, calling a parent, or texting a best friend. It’s the moment the news becomes real, when you share it with the person closest to you.

The conversation reminded me of advice I’ve often given during these phases, when nerves are frayed and futures uncertain. When people see team members dropping out of sight, their names grayed out on Slack, and ask themselves: How can I keep that from being me?

In those days and weeks after layoffs, the first instinct for those who remain is often to double down on work. Check emails at sunrise, work through lunch, stay late, log back on after dinner. Prove that you are relevant, your role necessary, your work indispensable. I know this feeling well, because I’ve been this person.

But now I tell people the opposite is true: Those are the times to double down on the people outside of work, the ones who are the first people you talk to when you close the laptop for the day. Because when the time comes to close the laptop for good – and it’s closer than you think – those are the people you’ll need most.

The process of layoffs can be very dehumanizing, so you need to be investing now in the relationships that make you human. This can be with people, with pets, with culture, with hobbies, with spirituality, and, yes, with yourself.

During the past couple of turbulent years, I’ve been intentional about putting people first, both at and outside of work. I tried to live by the timeless advice from Maya Angelou, that people don’t remember what you say or do, but how you make them feel. I wanted people to feel, well, human in their interactions with me.

A few weeks ago, it was my turn to receive the impact call and close my laptop for the last time. It’s been difficult, don’t get me wrong. Finances, health insurance, stability: It’s all on my mind. But the days are full, primarily because of the people I have around me.

There have been lots of human things to handle, mostly courtesy of my son: baking birthday cupcakes, practicing for the school spelling bee, growing crystals for the science fair, planning (and budgeting) Santa’s shopping list this year. I’ve also reconnected with old friends, made some new ones of former colleagues, and spent more time with other moms – many of whom, I’ve discovered, are in the same “between jobs” moment.

All of which to say: Losing a job is the end of something, but not the end of everything. If you have a job, you can (and should) continue to give 100% of your talent, insight, and skill to the work you do. But you don’t have to give 100% of yourself.

You exist outside of a tiny Zoom box. You are a full person in the real world. You have worth, value, and purpose, simply because you are you. You are a human, and that’s the only role that comes with lifelong job security.

I’m starting this newsletter as a reminder that we are humans. To get in touch with human things that inspire human emotions and celebrate human moments. If you don’t open the emails, I hope you at least find affirmation from the subject line in your inbox that You Are a Human. (But also please open the emails.)

Welcome, fellow humans, and thank you for joining me here.