Settle for More

by Megyn Kelly

I’m an overpreparer, so I had researched and rewritten my questions over and over again until I believed they were as tight and pointed as possible.

Then I asked him the question that would change my life. “Mr. Trump,” I said, “one of the things people love about you is you speak your mind and you don’t use a politician’s filter. However, that is not without its downsides. In particular, when it comes to women. You’ve called women you don’t like ‘fat pigs,’ ‘dogs,’ ‘slobs,’ and ‘disgusting animals.’” “Only Rosie O’Donnell,” he quipped. The crowd chuckled at his Rosie O’Donnell comment. I passed no judgment on the audience, but I was not going to join them in laughing. “For the record,” I said, “it was well beyond Rosie O’Donnell.” Trump knew it too. “I’m sure it was,” he said. We had fact-checked every word of that question. Rosie had, no question, been vicious toward Trump too, and if it had only been her, I would not have asked that question. But what I’d seen in my research binder was that he’d made a habit of attacking women regularly with these sorts of terms—mocking their looks and sexualizing them. The women he’d belittled in the terms I used in my question included, but were not limited to, Arianna Huffington, Bette Midler, New York Times columnist Gail Collins, and a lawyer requesting a prearranged break to pump breast milk for her baby (“disgusting”). There were many, many others. “Your Twitter account,” I continued, “has several disparaging comments about women’s looks. You once told a contestant on Celebrity Apprentice it would be a pretty picture to see her on her knees. Does that sound to you like the tem...

I was raised with strong values, and had spent much of my life to that point seeing my character tested. I was viciously bullied in middle school. My father died when I was a teenager. As a lawyer, I worked eighteen-hour days immersed in acrimony. As a cub reporter, I was targeted by a violent stalker. Once I became a well-known news anchor, I accepted without complaint the scrutiny that comes with that role. I’d also navigated my way through plenty of sexism from powerful men. So I suppose I was as prepared as anyone could be to spend the 2016 election being targeted by the likely Republican nominee. Yet still, the chaos Trump unleashed was of a completely different order than anything I’d encountered before—than anything any journalist has encountered at the hands of a presidential candidate in the history of modern American politics. This is the story of how I found myself on that debate stage, and how asking that question led to one of the toughest years of my life.

To know who I am, you have to know where I’m from. My family raised me in upstate New York with the core message: Be whoever you are. That person may (or may not) be extraordinary. We’re not going to lie to make you feel better, but we’ll love you no matter what. In our house, it wasn’t “You are special.” It was more like “You don’t seem that special so far, but we don’t care.” That foundation of you-are-nothing-remarkable-and-that’s-okay worked very well for me. When I was growing up, I felt zero pressure to achieve. I mean zero. As a result, I was able to figure out for myself what I wanted to do and find my own motivation. I grew up happy and, thanks to my parents’ honesty, had no delusions of grandeur. Early on, I knew what I was and wasn’t good at, because no one ever oversold my talents. My parents would never have even considered the trophies-for-everyone parenting philosophy now so in vogue. In our family, trophies were for winners, and there was no pressure to win. If you did win, you were praised. If you didn’t, everyone would have a laugh and a big meal and call it a day. My family simply did not believe in false praise. As a result, I grew up the opposite of spoiled. Everything about my outlook—my values, my sense of right and wrong, my independence—began there.

“Anything is doable as long as it’s time-limited,” she said. “This pain will never go away, but it will get easier.” My mother was so sad, but so brave at the same time. Once, when she was at work during this time, she had a contentious exchange with a table full of doctors at the hospital. Uncharacteristically, she burst into tears. While crying, she choked out: “These tears are not about you. They are about my husband. But don’t let the tears dilute the content of my message.” What a great line. She is so right. Like my mom, I am by no means a woman of steel. And as the years have gone on, I’ve come to realize the truth of what she modeled for me: It’s okay to get emotional. It’s okay to cry—and this is key—as long as you can play hurt. My mom always told me one of the tests of an emotionally healthy person was how quickly they could recover from a setback. The test of strength is not avoiding emotional distress; it’s functioning in the face of it.

Here is an entry from June 12, 1989, three and a half years after my father’s death: I feel so helpless sometimes. I know that my destiny is in my own hands, but to what extent? There is so much to think about—family, friends, career, LIFE! Will my grandchildren read this, years from now, and see it as the only thing to remember me by? No legacy? We’re here for such a short time. But what exactly are my ambitions? I thought ambition was viewed as bad, as wrong. It turns out it’s the key to everything. Where will I be in ten years? I want to be successful. What do I believe in—really believe in? Hell, Megyn, what do you even know about the world? I want to know what my teachers know. Where is it all? In books? I know where it is—it’s in years and years of research and experiences. That’s not something I can just have. I have to get it all for myself. I’m just sitting here wondering who I really am inside and—who am I to become?

Some of my apathy came from not having gotten into the journalism program. When I was accepted to Syracuse University, I applied to the famous Newhouse School of Communications, but was turned down. And so I entered the Maxwell School of Political Science instead. I had set my sights on the news business after my sophomore year in high school, when they gave us a written aptitude test. Mine said I should be a journalist. I did a two-day internship with the Albany Times-Union. I got to follow a reporter around all day as he talked to politicians and worked his sources. I thought it was thrilling. I also took a journalism class in high school. We watched All the President’s Men, and I found it deeply inspiring. Less inspiring was the day when our teacher wrote the following on the chalkboard and told us someone had actually written it on an exam: “Pullet Surprise” (for Pulitzer Prize). (No, it wasn’t me.)

Jim always said the key to winning a confrontation is for the other side to believe you’ll fight. Then you won’t have to. One time we were taking a vacation, and two punk kids were crossing in front of us in the crosswalk. One of them punched the front of Jim’s car. Jim was out of that car in a flash. “All right,” he said matter-of-factly, “who’s getting hit first?” They ran.

By my second year of college, I found myself thinking more and more about law school as a next step. I’d actually been considering it since my freshman year, when I had taken a class with a political science professor named Robert McClure. He was a tough, no-nonsense professor whose class I loved. I learned quite a bit from him about how to make an argument—and, more importantly, that I loved to argue. By the time I was a junior, I had decided to become a lawyer, which was empowering as a decision. I’d been searching for what my path would be and how I’d take control of my life. Now, finally, I’d seized upon one. From my journal entry on January 26, 1991: I am twenty years old now and have actively begun to make what I want happen. It’s a good feeling, though certainly frightening. I know who I am becoming and who I want to be. The horrifying threat of misplaced nostalgia will never affect me as I age, for—succeed or fail—I will have accomplished the satisfaction of attempting. When I applied to law schools, initially I thought I wanted to go to Notre Dame. It was Irish and Catholic, it was in South Bend, Indiana, and I thought it might be fun to see a different part of the country. Plus, it was a great school. I was turned down by Notre Dame, but got a yes from Albany Law School (ALS), right in my hometown, so I could live at home and save some money. Besides, everyone says it’s the Notre Dame of Albany. I would need all the confidence I got from my family and from Jim, b...

I failed to “grade on” to the Albany Law Review, the prestigious student-edited law journal.

The significance of that moment cannot be overstated. In fact, one could argue that my entire future depended on the strength of the article I submitted for the write-on competition. Without that feather in my cap, I almost certainly would not have caught the eye of my eventual law firm, which only accepted one or two students from my class in a very competitive process. I came away feeling empowered: I am in charge of changing my life, and hard work matters. I didn’t need money, or connections to power, or the natural advantages some of my classmates had. Through sheer force of will, I could get myself where I wanted to go. Between writing onto the Law Review and making the trial team, I was feeling increasingly confident in my skills as a potential lawyer, a feeling that only got stronger once I actually started competing in moot court. To this day, my moot court experiences in law school are among my best memories.

Trish concluded: “And when Megyn Kelly thinks back on her twenty-third birthday, it will be a day she never forgets.” And she was right.

One day Melilli said to our first-year class, “Look, for those of you sitting here feeling bad about yourself because you’re in danger of failing out, don’t beat yourself up too badly. Just remember, you’re still in law school—something thousands of others wanted but were denied. And for those of you at the top of your class, feeling great about yourselves and thinking, ‘I’ve got it made,’ just remember: you’re still at Albany.” That’s pretty profound if you think about it. However low you are, there is always something to feel proud of, and however high you are, there is always something to humble you. I hold on to that to this day. My mother is only too happy to help.

I wouldn’t be getting an offer. They claimed they didn’t have the money in the budget, even though they loved me, yadda yadda yadda.

Luckily, I’d built up a reservoir of confidence and a tough shell, so I was spurred instead of crushed by this failure.

This experience of showing up at work with a positive attitude despite feeling like hell inside was quite valuable. I would come to draw on it many times in my career.

By the time I returned to Albany that fall, I was committed to turning things around. I marched into the career-planning office and began researching the firms at which I might still have a shot. Most did their main recruiting from the second-year, not the third-year, class, so I was late to the party, and I knew it. One firm, however, did stand out: Bickel & Brewer. They were based in Dallas, with smaller satellite offices in Washington, DC, New York, and Chicago. They liked to hire third-year law students, and at New York salaries. William Brewer bears a decent resemblance to a young Robert Redford. He walks with a strong gait and wears a tan Burberry trench coat over perfectly tailored navy or gray suits. He was also legendary in the halls of Albany Law School, where he had studied law. I researched him and his firm with vigor and soon found that Brewer’s looks weren’t the only thing attractive about this firm. The term “Rambo litigation” was coined there. They took no prisoners. You hired them when you wanted a fight. At twenty-three years old, I loved that. Kill or be killed! We’re not here to make friends, we’re here to win! You sue my client? F— you and your request for an extension! You want a settlement conference? Pound sand! Our offer is screw you! Looking back, this feels a little silly, but as a young gun it sounded very sexy to me. I could enter a frat or a brotherhood of sorts. The bravado naturally appealed to me, given the protective armor I’d built up sin...

One of my classmates who had family dough and always looked very put-together saw me after and said, “Is that what you wore?” I left feeling hopeful about a callback. Sure enough, I got one, which meant a trip to Dallas along with all the other recruits. I was nervous about going up against so many other aspirants at once. These were guys from Harvard and Yale and the University of Chicago, and I was the girl from Albany who had to write onto Law Review. Still, I knew it was death to worry about them. Jim had told me long ago that you can always tell which team is going to win before the game even begins. “How?” I asked. “Because one team is running drills and practicing plays and focusing on their game,” he said, “and the other team is looking at that team.” Before I knew it, I was in a first-class seat to Dallas. While there, I stayed at the Mansion, a tony hotel with thousand-thread-count sheets and great-smelling body lotion. They put on a weekend of parties and extravagant dinners for us. I could see that this place spared no expense. I was mesmerized by how luxurious this world looked up close. I’d never had a lot of money. I was used to struggling to get anything. For seven years of college and law school, I had lived on a shoestring budget. I survived on student loans and the money I made teaching aerobics and doing odd jobs, which was barely enough to cover my tuition, never mind room and board. My apartment for many of those years had a tiny freezer so iced up th...

In I went to John Bickel’s office. We hit it off instantly. I did something all job applicants should do—I asked for the job. I told him that if they extended an offer, I would accept it on the spot, that I had done the research and investigation, and this was where I wanted to be. Don’t underestimate the power this message can have on a potential employer. Everyone likes to be flattered. Of course it works better if it’s true. I left the office cautiously optimistic. That night, between my ridiculously soft sheets, with that feeling of a new city around me and a new beginning on the horizon, I stared at the ceiling and felt elated at the possibilities. Things were happening that could alter the course of my life. One step at a time, I was starting to run. I hadn’t grown up with high hopes for my future, but in that moment I had a sense of opportunity knocking, of imagining that I might actually be able to make something out of my life.

The sum they offered me seemed ludicrous: $85,000 a year. I would be able to pay my bills, every month! Little old me. A girl from Albany, or, as we called it, “Smallbany.” I wasn’t yet twenty-five. It was more money than either of my parents had ever made in a year. I had no idea what it was like not to dread getting the mail, or to simply pay a bill when it arrived, stress-free—but now, for the first time in my adult life, that would be in my future. And that firm I had interned for in Syracuse that didn’t make me an offer? Well, guess what—they came through. Called me up and offered me the job, and the life I had thought I wanted in Syracuse. But it was too late. I had already found a new dream, and a new me: Megyn Kelly, Esquire. Attorney and counselor at Bickel & Brewer. Big-city high flyer. I moved to the Windy City in August 1995. I had rented an apartment in a high-rise near Oprah’s apartment building on Navy Pier. The night I moved in, I remember looking out the window in an apartment furnished with a bed, a love seat, a TV, and two milk crates, drinking white Franzia boxed wine and playing Tina Turner’s “I Don’t Wanna Fight” on CD. I did it, I thought. My “real life” was starting. I was somewhere, and on my way to being someone.

One early brief I turned in was less than stellar, and a senior associate sat me down. “Look,” he said, “we are American Airlines First Class. Our clients expect the cloth napkins and the glass cups and the real silverware. You can’t half-ass things here.” I worked like a dog. Many nights I stayed past midnight. Saturdays were not a day off as much as a chance to catch up on work you hadn’t managed to get to during the week. On Sundays we worked a laid-back noon to 6:00 p.m. I didn’t mind. I understood the enormous opportunity I had been given—the chance to prove myself, to make something of my life. Around this time, I shared a cab with a lawyer who’d been in the game about eight years. We struck up a conversation. “Do you hate it yet?” he asked. “No!” I said. “I love it!” “Just wait,” he said to me. “About eight years in is when you decide you’re either in it for the long haul or ready to make a change.” If that were true, I had seven years left on my clock. Even though I was the only female lawyer in our Chicago office, I didn’t deal with much in the way of sexism, though occasionally there was a waft of it. For example, when Brewer came up to the Chicago office from Dallas, all of the women in the office—yours truly plus the support staff—had to change from our pants into skirts. We weren’t supposed to be wearing pants at all, ever, but the rule wasn’t enforced unless Bickel or Brewer came through. It seemed ridiculous to me. The guys could wear pants, but we had to fr...

To this day, I believe planning out confrontations in detail is key. It prevents regrets in the moment (e.g., your temper getting away from you) and lets you control the exchange. Well, the day arrived: Michael asked me to copy another case. He said it in passing as he walked by me in the hall and into his office. “Meggie! I need you to copy a case for me.” He called all of us in the office by some similar nickname (Johnny, Jeffy, Stevie . . . ). I turned and followed him into his office, where he was now sitting behind his desk. My heart was beating hard, and I was conscious of it pounding in my chest, but I tried to sound calm and authoritative. “Michael,” I said. “I’m done copying cases for you. It’s not an appropriate use of an associate’s time.” “What?” “I said I’m done copying cases for you. If you would like to discuss a case with me, I’m happy to retrieve it and have that talk. But if you just want me to do secretarial work for you, I won’t.” Michael’s face was getting red. He was clipping his words. “Do you think John Bickel copies his own cases?” he demanded. “Do you think Bill Brewer copies his own cases?” “No,” I answered. “I think they have their paralegals or secretaries do it.” The universe did me a little favor in this moment; just as he was edging toward genuine anger, his phone rang, and it was an important client. I took my cue and scurried out of there, but it was not over. I later learned, from one of the senior associates, that Michael called up John ...

I decided to go back to square one. I had a law school professor who had worked at the prestigious international law firm Jones Day, and I called him and asked him if he would forward my résumé to the hiring partner. He did so, and within a week I was walking through Jones Day’s New York office. This felt like real Big Law practice. There were Warhols in the conference rooms. The receptionists were attractive and well dressed. The lawyers looked busy and important, with tastefully appointed offices and great views. It felt like a promotion in every way. As it turned out, they made me an offer, and so did two other Big Law firms. I couldn’t believe it. I went from “Why don’t you try begging?” to three great offers, none of which would have happened if I hadn’t taken a risk and called my law school professor about forwarding my résumé to Jones Day. I chose Jones Day because I believed it was one of the best law firms in the world. I knew that if I could succeed there, my legal pedigree would be unassailable. Just like that, I was heading to New York City.

As is often the case, it’s the rare near-death experience that actually forces you to reevaluate your life. Those things are traumatic, but they are so packed with adrenaline that it’s more cinematic than life-changing. Rather, my awakening came from something far more, for lack of a better word, innocuous (hi, Jim): a trip home to see my mom.

That night, back at my mother’s, I sat on her couch and wrote in my journal: I am more exciting than this! I am more interesting than this! I am more interested than this! I need more out of life! Then I wrote down one of the most important commitments I’ve ever made to myself: I will be out of the law by this time next year.

Then, one night, her guest, Dr. Phil, said something that made me drop my fork: “The only difference between you and someone you envy is, you settled for less.”

I can’t be contented with yesterday’s glory. I can’t live on promises, winter to spring. Today is my moment. Now is my story. I’ll laugh, and I’ll cry, and I’ll sing. I knew suddenly, and with no doubt, that it wasn’t my fate to be so unconnected to my fellow human beings. Or to spend my life taking faulty-tire depositions. I was meant for something else. Something more. Now, I just had to figure out what.

His parting words were, “Pay it forward.” I’ve done so many times, and when I do, I think of him and Meredith.

It’s not a bad lesson for young people starting out: trust your instincts. Sometimes even those who are supposed to be looking out for you can underestimate your value. Often you are your own best advocate. I wound up firing that agent right after I started. I

In those days, I enthusiastically took every shift they gave me. Christmas? No problem. Friday and Saturday night? Absolutely. Work a double? Yes. I’d advise anyone in a new job to do the same thing: say yes to everything. Everything within reason. Until you don’t have to. Do it happily and without complaint. These days, I’m more judicious in my choices—I have to be, given the time constraints I’m under. But I’m still a hard worker. Little by little, I started to get better shifts, and eventually, better stories. Occasionally, I’d get to go on Shepard Smith’s The Fox Report at 7:00 p.m., which I really enjoyed. He’s still my favorite news anchor. And my favorite show to appear on was always Special Report with Brit Hume. It was the best journalistic training ground a young reporter could ask for. When our packages would air, we’d watch the so-called Brit cam, a camera on Brit’s face that we could see on our internal feed. If he grimaced, you were on the shit list. If he yelled, you were dead. If he smiled? Well, that was too good to hope for. One night I got a grimace. Damn. After the show ended, Kim Hume pulled me aside. A sound bite that should have been cut had been in the segment. “Why was that in there?” she asked. “I don’t know,” I said. “I told them—” “What could you have done differently to prevent it?” “I don’t know. I told the editor not to include it, and he didn’t listen.” “Not him,” she said. “You. What could you have done differently?” This was an important m...

Having come from the legal world, I was stunned by how, even as I was working hard by news standards, my new hours were so reasonable. News was shift work. Eight hours on, and then you go home. If you didn’t have a hit in your last hour or two, sometimes you could even leave early. That stack of papers on your desk? Throw it in the garbage; it is now literally yesterday’s news. What a difference from law, where the paperwork lived forever, and even seemed to breed like rabbits when (if) you slept. Suddenly I had something quite foreign to me—time. That new gift allowed me to think hard about what I wanted in all areas of my life, and I realized I still had much work to do—on my new career, my friendships, my marriage, and myself. It all began in January, when Brit pulled me aside and said I “had captured the attention of Mr. Ailes.” He said I was “being fast-tracked.” I wasn’t sure what that meant, but it sounded promising. He also said that he’d told Roger I shouldn’t be brought along too quickly—that I should pay my dues in Washington. Brit wanted me to work as a reporter and spend time learning our trade. I was excited for any and all of it. That summer, around my one-year anniversary at Fox, Roger called me up to New York and told me something: I had an authenticity problem. Roger had literally written the book on how to read people—it’s called You Are the Message. “Viewers can spot a phony from a mile away,” Roger said. He encouraged me not to be so reluctant to show ...

“You dig your own gold.”

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 of genius,” meaning the place where one’s top talent combines with one’s passion—with what one really wants.

Our first date was at Zaytinya in Washington, DC, a trendy spot that had a long, open bar in back.

But spending your life pretending you are something other than what you are is unsustainable.

Her divorce is too recent. She’s not ready. Maybe it is too soon. But it’s never too soon to start the life you want.

It’s not that I reject the idea of demanding a place at the table—quite the contrary. But in my own experience, the most effective way to get opportunities is with performance, not persistence. Hard work matters. I really believe that. It can get you on the Law Review, on the moot court team, on the partnership track, in the anchor chair. It can improve your friendships, your relationships, yourself. But you can’t half-ass it. And sitting around convincing yourself that you deserve more without busting your backside to get it is not only bad form, it’s pointless. I’ve never worked at a place where some star employee—man or woman—was unknown to everyone, toiling away unnoticed. If you believe this is happening to you, ask yourself if you have worked as hard as possible, studied extensively, and made yourself invaluable. If you can’t honestly say you have done all of those things, quit complaining. “I don’t feel valued,” a co-worker once said to me. “That’s because you’re not,” I said. “You should go somewhere else.” I saw no reason to sugarcoat it. Kelly family values in their purest form. Settle for more. Many people choose to work