THE REAL FEATHER in my cap is having raised two extraordinary daughters, although I’m not sure how much credit I can take. Ellie is a thriving TV writer—a tough industry to crack—in LA. Having dated for a decade since meeting at Yale, she and her perfect match, Mark, finally tied the knot. Among other things, he’s a calming presence （yes, my girls can be intense; wonder where they got that from）。 Carrie is my social justice warrior. She got her master’s in journalism from Columbia, and writes about important issues with wisdom and depth beyond her years. What I’m proudest of is the fine people they have become: kind, caring, unpretentious.
I always felt like one of the best things I could give my daughters was the example of someone living a full and fulfilling life—both as a mom and as a working woman. That meant being away from home a lot and missing some key moments. But it also meant sharing experiences I never had as a kid: picnicking on the Great Wall and seeing the cherry blossoms in Kyoto; bodysurfing at Bondi Beach; navigating the Pyramids at midnight by flashlight. I always wanted to give my girls the world, and in many ways, my work let me do that.
When all is said and done, though, I am my mother’s daughter, becoming more like her by the minute: when I neatly peel a pear and present the girls with the tidy slices on a china plate, or when I fix them lunch and declare, “A sandwich always tastes better when someone else makes it for you.” Or when one of my children feels slighted or wounded, and I rear up like a Kodiak bear on its hind legs, ready to maul whoever’s crossed her. My mom may be gone, but her essence is very much alive in me.
IT’S AN ADJUSTMENT when the white-hot spotlight moves on. The ego gratification of being the It girl is intoxicating （toxic being the root of the word）。 When that starts to fade, it takes some getting used to—at least it did for me. I remember watching the ’91 movie Soapdish starring Sally Field as a has-been soap star who heads to a mall in Paramus whenever she needs the endorphin hit of being recognized. Thankfully, I haven’t resorted to hanging out at the food court…yet.
John helps me keep everything in perspective. Whenever a hostess at a restaurant looks at me blankly or I have to repeat, “No, it’s C-o-u-r-i-c,” he laughs and says under his breath, “It’s over.” The upside? I don’t have to worry about those “Stars! They’re Just Like Us!” photos of me in ratty sweatpants looking like I’ve been on a five-day bender.
But a lower profile doesn’t mean I can’t still create some serious dustups. When I was hosting the opening ceremony at the 2018 Olympics in Pyeongchang, I caused an international incident when I noted what good speed skaters the Dutch were, adding that when the canals freeze, the residents have been known to skate on them “to get from place to place.” Twitter blew up, accusing me of suggesting that skating was a primary mode of transportation in Holland, sharing memes like a pack of speed skaters with a windmill backdrop under the caption Rush hour in the Netherlands. The Dutch embassy jumped in, inviting me to visit so they could “show me all the innovative ways the Dutch get around.”
More thin ice: In January of 2021 when I appeared on Real Time with Bill Maher, he asked how I felt about the members of Congress who refused to concede that Joe Biden had won the presidential election. I lamented the fact that so many were consuming online misinformation. “How are we going to really almost deprogram these people who have signed up for the cult of Trump?” I said. Sean Hannity ran with it. Suddenly, I was being accused of wanting to send Republicans to concentration camps. I was also called the C-word more times in two weeks than I had in my entire life—and those were the nice comments. While being the occasional lightning rod is something I’ll probably never get used to, at least people still care what I think.
Something else that’s difficult to get used to: the creaks and cracks of aging. When I see the crepey skin on my thighs during downward dog, Om becomes Omygod, how the hell did that happen? （Although I’m happy to report my trademark calves are still hanging in there.） By now, squeezing my softening midsection into a formfitting sheath feels, well…exhausting. As my friend Carol put it, “I think we’ve officially entered our caftan years.”
Wendy called the other day.
“Can you believe I’m 68?” she said.
“Can you believe I’m 64?” I responded, so grateful for this friendship that began all those years ago when we were babies together at ABC News.
The TV career that followed exceeded every dream I ever had. And yet I’m happy where I am now, still learning, still growing, still asking questions. I’ll never forget Rod Stewart’s response when I marveled that he’d fathered his eighth kid in his sixties: “There’s still lead in the ol’ pencil, Kate.”