I’m back. Yes, that noise you heard were some cheering, while others’ heads steam and turn in anger. But I’ve got news for you: I’m not that person anymore. You read that right: the person you thought you knew — or maybe actually did know, is not who I am.
Before I share what is on my heart, I have one request: Delete that old version of me in your mind. It expired.
For 15 years, I’ve been a journalist, a truth-hunter, a storyteller; once a wildfire on wheels, tearing through deadlines and chaos, being what some would call “hell on wheels.” Back then, I was unstoppable, diving into the heart of breaking news with a ferocity that earned me a reputation. Some called me a force; others, a villain, slapping a bad name on me without ever meeting me. They built their opinions on gossip, not truth, never bothering to dig deeper or shake my hand. Those folks? They’re not my tribe. I’m drawn to independent minds—people who question, research, and form their own conclusions. If you’re led by someone else’s leash, we won’t vibe. Come up and talk with me, ask me questions; shake my hand; email me; send me a text (actually, don’t text me. My phone blows up as it is). But for goodness sake: make up your own opinion of me (and others) after you meet me (or them); not from what others say or what you read online.
I’m no saint. I’ve stumbled, screwed up, and owned it. But let’s set the record straight: half — or more — of what you’ve heard about me is fiction. I’ve never posted a photo of a dead body. I’ve never released a victim’s name without law enforcement’s go-ahead or a victim’s consent for an on-record interview. I’ve never notified next of kin before police in fatal cases. And I’ve never aired SWAT or tactical movements live, always shielding the integrity of an active scene. Those accusations? They’re lies, plain and simple.
Two years ago, I stepped away from the grind. I needed to pause, reflect, and rebuild. Now I’m back, but I’m not the same man. I’ve grown: emotionally, mentally, and, yeah, physically, too. The fire still burns, but it’s tempered by a quiet, steady force: humility. It’s the word I carry, whispering it to myself daily. Humility keeps me grounded, reminds me I’m no better than anyone else, no matter my wins or losses. It’s the lens through which I see the world now, a constant check on my ego. I’ll never forget where I came from: a scrappy kid scraping by, clawing my way up. Every step was hard-won, fueled by grit, gratitude, and the kindness of friends, family, grandparents, and even strangers. I don’t flaunt my blessings; I know how fast they can vanish. Humility is my anchor, my daily prayer.
This past Tuesday — or “Chewsday,” as my British cousins say — I found myself at Reagan National Airport, stranded after missing a flight by four gut-punching minutes. The plane was still at the gate, but the door had closed. Rules are rules. Seven hours loomed before the next direct flight, so I wandered into an airport diner, craving a hamburger; my first in five years.
The place was a hive of energy, waiters and waitresses (still okay to say that, right?) weaving through a sea of travelers. Some patrons were scraping by, others flaunted wealth that could buy the whole concourse. From my barstool, I caught a waitress pull the manager aside, her face glowing as she showed him a tip on her tablet. Whatever the number, it was clearly a small victory in her day. Curious, I asked the bartender about the starting wage. “Sixteen-fifty an hour,” he said. I leaned back, burger halfway to my mouth, struck by the weight of it. These folks — many in their 30s and 40s, likely supporting families — worked tirelessly for poor pay, serving thousands daily with smiles that hid their own struggles. My missed flight in first class suddenly felt trivial. Humility washed over me again, a reminder to stay grateful, to never take my own path for granted.
As I ate, I overheard a conversation that stopped me cold. A young busboy, maybe 19, was talking to a coworker in hushed tones. His mother was sick, he said, and he was working double shifts to cover her medical bills. He hadn’t told anyone else, didn’t want pity; just kept showing up, clearing tables, and smiling. Something about his quiet resilience hit me deep. I’d been that kid once, hustling to keep the lights on, praying for a break without asking my wealthy family for help. Humility isn’t just staying grounded; it’s recognizing the dignity in everyone’s fight, no matter their station.
I paid my bill, left a generous tip, and started walking down the concourse from gate D25 to D5. That’s when the once-in-a-lifetime moment happened, one I’ll carry forever. A Bulgarian waitress, her accent thick and warm, came running after me, weaving through the crowded terminal. “Excuse me, sir!” she called, breathless, holding out my phone. I hadn’t even realized I’d left it on the bar. But that wasn’t the extraordinary part. As I thanked her, she hesitated, then pressed a small, folded piece of paper into my hand. “Please, read this later,” she said, her eyes earnest, before hurrying back to the diner.
I waited until I was seated at my gate to unfold it. Inside was a handwritten note, scrawled in careful English: “You have kind eyes. I see you watch people, not judge them. My family came. Today, you make me smile. Thank you.” My throat tightened. In 15 years of journalism, I’ve seen a lot: tragedy, triumph, the best and worst of humanity. But this? This was singular, a fleeting connection that felt like the universe nudging me, reminding me to stay humble, to keep seeing people, really seeing them. I tucked the note into my pocket as a reminder that humility isn’t just a word, it’s a way of being; a commitment to kindness and presence.
That moment crystallized something I’ve been learning: life isn’t about fate alone or hustle alone. It’s about showing up with an open heart, recognizing we’re all fighting battles, co-existing in this messy, beautiful world. Humility means knowing I’m no bigger or smaller than the waitress, the busboy, or the next millionaire at the next table. It means owning my past without letting it define me. And if I’ve ever wronged you, been rude, or fucked you over—I’m sorry. From the bottom of my heart, I’m remorseful. That’s not who I am anymore.
I live by a few truths now, ones I lean on when the world feels heavy:
- If you don’t have anything kind to say, don’t say anything at all.
- It doesn’t take much to be nice.
- We’re all human. It’s okay.
- We can disagree without being disagreeable.
- Most of the issues we have stem from gossip or miscommunication. Simply communicate, openly and honestly.
- Listen more than you speak; you’ll learn something new every time.
- Forgive quickly, not for them, but for your own peace.
- Small acts of kindness ripple further than you’ll ever know.
- Stay curious; there’s always another story worth hearing.
Don’t waste energy on negativity. Misery is a choice, and I’ve got no room for it — or for those who spread it. Smile at a stranger. Hold space for their battles. And keep moving forward, humbly, gratefully, one story at a time.
I will share more details in the coming week as the Guardian evolves and changes. For now, let us all take a breath and remind ourselves of peace. The news here has been different — some would say non-existent in recent time, but that all will change. As we know, one thing I know how to do — and do well is the news, and it’s time for the news to come back.