People often think my biggest failure was being fired from my job as a CBS News anchor in 2006. It’s true, that hurt; being let go was a personal blow, a punch in the stomach. But that was nothing compared with the time, years earlier, that my sleep deprivation caused an accident that I almost never forgave myself for.
It all started as soon as I brought my second daughter, Carlie, home from the hospital. Almost immediately I began thinking about returning to my job as a freelance overnight anchor at CBS News. I was determined to make such a positive impression on my bosses that they would keep me in mind for any permanent opportunities that might open up. I went back to work after only five weeks, long before I was ready. I was bone tired, with a toddler—Emilie was two—and a newborn, and I was working the graveyard shift. Exhausted, I spent months surviving each day on no more than a two- or three-hour power nap. I was so invested in being the perfect working mom that I hid the fact that I was severely sleep-deprived. I was convinced that every other woman I knew was doing a better job of juggling motherhood, marriage and work than I was. Carlie was just 14 weeks old when I raced home from work to relieve the nanny one Friday. I collected Carlie in my arms while the nanny filled me in on the girls’ day. Still zipping around like a wild windup toy, I moved toward the stairs and misjudged the top step. Next thing I knew, I was in midair, flying down the staircase. My back crashed hard against the middle steps, and I tumbled down the rest. Somehow Carlie was pressed beneath me each time I landed. It happened in a split second.
At the bottom of the steps, Carlie did not turn colors or scream. She just made a squeak and curled up in a way I’d never seen her do in her short life. I grabbed my car keys and raced to the car, placing Carlie in her seat as gently as I could. The hospital was just a couple of miles away—I’d be there in the time it took to call 911. I cried as I drove. I prayed. I chanted, “Please make her OK. Please make her OK.”
Instantly Carlie was surrounded by doctors, nurses and technicians. I watched helplessly as doctors pressed a series of needles into Carlie’s little toes and got no response. She was awake and conscious, but she was completely unresponsive. I heard someone whisper, “Spinal cord damage.” Everything got quiet and far away. One doctor called a spinal cord expert at another hospital. “How soon can you get here?” I heard him say.
I watched as they rolled little Carlie into an adjacent imaging room for an MRI. I was supposed to take care of her. How could I have let myself get so run-down, so exhausted at work, that I would fumble over my own feet and fall down a steep flight of stairs with my newborn in my arms? After a moment I could no longer stand. My legs crumpled beneath me, and I slid to the floor. How was I ever going to forgive myself for what I had done?
It took my husband, Jim, a couple hours to get to us—he’s an investigative reporter and was away on assignment. I couldn’t look at him. I was too ashamed. In fits and starts I managed to tell him the story. He tried to talk me down from all the guilt. It didn’t help, but it was good that he tried. After five hours of tests and consultations, a doctor came in to tell us that Carlie was indeed broken. It was not her spine as I had feared: Her right thighbone had snapped. She’d been so silent because she’d gone into paralytic shock. I don’t think there’s ever been a mother in the annals of emergency room history so overjoyed at the news of her child’s broken leg. “Her leg is broken! Her leg is broken!” we told each other. I felt like we’d just won the $10 million Powerball jackpot, like we’d won our daughter’s future back. She’d be fine. Maybe not for a couple of weeks, or even a couple of months. But fine eventually. It was truly the best news I’d ever heard in my life. Carlie was in a body cast for eight weeks, which was the saddest, most depressing piece of this ordeal. Carrying her was like holding a small wooden coffin. I couldn’t hug her. I cried all the time, though I tried to fight it. And I started to think differently about my job. It was too much. I was done. I told myself it was time to back off my dreams of having a major career in television.
This was when I learned that it is best to marry a man who truly knows you, even when you don’t know yourself. Jim’s response was simple: “No.” He said, “You can’t quit like this.” He told me to give it six more months, promising to go into debt to get the help and support we needed—24 hours a day, if necessary. “You can quit after you get your sea legs back at work in six months. But not now, not like this.”
Jim knew how important work was to me, and what it would mean to our daughters to grow up with a working mom. So he took out loans to hire an additional nanny so I could get the rest I needed. We found a night person and a day person, which gave us round-the-clock care. We were completely broke. There was nothing in our bank accounts at the end of each week. But after a couple of months, I really started hitting my stride. My husband had given me the time and freedom to live and work as a journalist. It was still grueling, but I stopped trying to do that thing we women do: Be everywhere, do everything. I let our sitters stay with our children all day if I felt I needed to catch up on sleep. I’ll be the first to admit, it wasn’t perfect. There were days when I was far less present as a mother, but my daughters were loved and cared for and in no danger of flying down a flight of stairs. Today, thankfully, Carlie is a happy, bouncy, strong 11-year-old who loves horseback riding and tennis—and her mom.
I’ve shared this story with you not because it’s my proudest moment, but because I want to remind women that perfection is a myth. As my girls move toward adulthood, the most important lesson I can pass on is: Pace yourself. It’s what all these years of running and gunning and accomplishing have taught me. It’s not about slowing down but strategizing for the long haul. Pull back when your gut says you should. In retrospect, my biggest failures always seemed to find me when I was trying to do too much too soon. But that’s OK; sometimes the only way to get it right is to get it wrong first.
Adapted from Mika Brzezinski’s memoir, All Things at Once.
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