This was posted in a veteran’s Facebook group by Dave Crete, one of the vets at the center of an investigation I spent more than a year reporting.

What struck me was not that he mentioned the national investigation that eventually aired or the congressional movement since. He wrote instead about a small scene from the last day we filmed together.

His house was filled with the flotsam of our news camera crew, lights, cables, tripods, people everywhere. Several of us were sitting around his dining room table. A veteran had been describing his deteriorating, devastating condition. It had been days of back-to-back interviews, hearing about these men and women who served on a sprawling piece of windswept Nevada desert, a training range that encompasses Area 51.

They had been tasked with top-secret work. Decades later, as many of them became seriously ill or died of cancer — the Department of Defense was still keeping them classified, their records “DATA MASKED” — the vets told me the very secrecy they’d honored was now barring them from getting the critical care and benefits they needed.

At some point, I got up, and as everyone stayed in the other room and my crew gathered b-roll, I walked around the corner into Dave’s kitchen, and cried where I thought no one could see me.

Apparently Dave could.

His daughter Gabby brought me tissues.

That is what stuck in his mind about that day.

There’s something innately disorienting about being handed back a piece of your life by someone else.

So much of my career up until this point dabbles in memory. I would sit across from people under the lights of a camera crew in their living rooms, or in a split two-box on a TV screen and ask them the same thing: “take me back.”

I’m increasingly becoming aware of something discomforting: we move through the world with a private theory of what other people notice about us.

But what I’ve constantly underestimated? The small intersections of impact you have on other people’s lives. I’ve underestimated what really lasts.

There’s a temptation to imagine legacy on the order of monuments.

I suspect most of what survives us in others is almost particulate in nature.

That a life amounts to millions of microscopic impressions. The emotional residue of having been in our presence.

The word I keep coming back to is: gentle.

These last four years of national news left me with a pretty good view of how these days people are entering the room with knives already drawn. I’ve felt drenched in partisan vitriol. I’m sure you’ve noticed it too; everyone seems to have an entire treatise prepared, a case to make with a rebuttal already locked and loaded.

In this moment, I can’t think of a better compliment than being called a “gentleman” or “gentlewoman.” Admittedly the latter smacks a little old fashioned - but my God, to have the courage to be gentle with others in this world.

I realize now, gentle is not the absence of strength. It is what strength looks like when it does not need to prove itself on someone else.

I have always loved an old line about “forgiveness being the fragrance a violet leaves on the heel that has crushed it” (it’s been attributed to Mark Twain without a ton of evidence but could be much older than that). It’s not the provenance that’s stuck like velcro in my brain.

I remember the fragrance; the idea that just the contact alone leaves someone blessed, leaves an anointing behind.

Legacy isn’t even what I am talking about, that’s too lofty and too grand a word. What I mean, what I’m interested in, is the the sediment we leave in other people.

My point is: you are constantly making appearances in stories you will never hear, cameos in the movie you’ll never see.

There is something unnerving about the realization that we’re not the sole editors of ourselves. But there’s something freeing in that too - perhaps somewhere in there is permission to stop trying quite so hard to engineer it all.

I suspect a life does not make its deepest impression where we think it does. Perhaps it happens incrementally, in a thousand exchanges too small to catalogue. A tone of voice. A kindness. The humiliation we choose not to inflict. The extra minute we give. The face we make when somebody tells us something nascent and fragile.

I look back and remember fighting tooth and nail to air that investigation.

Dave remembers a kitchen.

I keep thinking about all the rooms and all the lives you’ve passed through without ever knowing what pieces of you stayed behind.

We cannot curate our way into a legacy.

On my mind, for what it’s worth: I think we can try to move gently enough through other people’s lives that the residue is good.

Until next time,

Let me tell you, live television is strange training.

You learn how to hold a coherent train of thought while someone’s voice is piped directly in your ear - how to abandon a plan while hopefully not looking like you’ve completely abandoned the plan - how to choose which precious question to ask when you have four minutes to understand something another person has spent a lifetime living. How to hone an extreme level of polish, to project even in abject chaos, you are safe here. We will work through this together.

Somewhat outside of yourself, you also get to observe what your own body does under this kind of pressure. What happens when you make a mistake in front of a whole lot of people. And how important preparation can be, but the precise moment it invariably stops helping.

All these years I thought I was learning how to do television, but a lot of these skills turned out to be useful everywhere else. Here are three things worth sharing, the ones I come back to all the time.

1. You’re not nervous. You’re excited.

We all know the feeling. Your heart speeds up. Your palms are sweaty (mom’s spaghetti, she’s nervous - iykyk).

The natural interpretation is - I’m nervous - and the advice we try to force on ourselves in that moment is - Calm down.

Here’s what’s actually worked for me instead:

Wow, I’m excited.

I know. This sounds suspiciously like a generic Canva-produced Instagram platitude - until you look at the research.

I was a Knight Fellow at Stanford and it was the incredible and dynamic Allison Kluger who imparted this particular wisdom (I carry so many of her lessons with me today. She comes from the world of network TV, teaches strategic communication and media coaching, and was just awarded the 2026 MBA Distinguished Teaching Award. Look up her work and watch her speak here and here.)

This reframe is something I used often.

A big interview was coming. A major event — a big public speaking moment with a spotlight, podium and empty stage (I once had to introduce Hilary Clinton at an apolitical business conference in front of thousands of women, only to be told she was running late and I needed to vamp, which means improvise and extend. She didn’t arrive for 45 minutes. This is nightmare fuel and I lived it.)

Through all of it - I clocked it. And told myself - oh wow, I’m excited.

And better yet, in many situations I would try my best to decenter myself from the task at hand.

Before the red light would go on, I’d often follow it with a thought: “this isn’t about me. God, please use me as a vessel, help me do the most good I can.”

Because it was never about me. It was about the message, about the work. I got to be excited about helping.

2. The bow will snap: The mistake isn’t the problem. What you do next is.

Years in live television cured me of the fantasy that if you are sufficiently prepared, nothing embarrassing will ever happen. I know this and I suspect you do too: even with all the preparation in the world, something will, always, eventually, inevitably go wrong. Murphy’s Law, people.

All of these real things populate my anxiety dreams: you mispronounce a word or a name, a clip doesn’t roll, the teleprompter straight up fails, the wrong graphic appears, someone starts talking in your ear while you’re listening for a crucial piece of information.

Over the years, I’ve developed a philosophy about those moments - when the blunder is obvious, acknowledge it. This idea is diametrically different than many of my esteemed colleagues.

Their excellent and earned school of thought is: the show must go on, never expose the machinery, don’t call attention to a mistake - your job is to smooth it over so well that the viewer never has to know anything went wrong.

There is a lot to be said for that and that’s how I operated for a long time. But here’s what years have taught me.

I take respecting the audience’s intelligence very seriously. And when something has plainly gone sideways, I sometimes think pretending otherwise asks the audience to participate in a fiction neither of us believes. We have enough Orwellian doublespeak and up is down language elsewhere, I don’t want this in a space I have a modicum of control in.

One night, I was interviewing the inimitable Niall Stanage of The Hill about politics (I miss getting to speak with him on my show. The level of deep context and incisive humanity he brings is incredible rare. Read some of his work here.)

Midway through the interview, my IFB failed, catastrophically.

If you’ve ever wondered about the little coiled earpiece anchors wear, that’s the IFB. It allows me to hear the control room. During a remote interview, it is also how I hear the person I’m interviewing.

Suddenly I could not hear Niall. At all. I could ask him a question. I could watch him silently answering me on the monitor. I had absolutely no idea what he was saying.

All I could do was watch his mouth and monitor for the moment it stopped moving. I would hazard a guess that his answer was over (and hope he wasn’t just pausing for breath or making a dramatic point) and ask question two.

He answered. I could see on Teams that the booth was frantically trying to restore my audio, to no avail.

I watched his mouth again. Now we were approaching question three, and I had a decision to make.

I could ask another question and pray that it bore any logical relationship to whatever Niall had just said.

Or I could simply give up the bit, and clue everyone into what was happening.

So I said something roughly like:

“Hey Niall, just so our viewers know at home, we’re having a slight audio issue on my side and I actually can’t hear you right now. But I did want to ask you about X. If it makes sense, can you tell our viewers about that?”

Niall, being an absolute professional, helped ease the moment, took it and ran with it. He is the person you’d want to be building the plane with as you’re flying it.

We finished the segment.

My audio came back.

The world continued spinning, sanity was restored, reason no longer tottered on her throne.

But I think there is something incredibly powerful here - when you acknowledge the obvious without making it bigger than it is, you are telling people: Yes. You noticed that. I noticed it too. You’re not crazy. Here is what is happening. We’ve got it.

Then you move on.

I think especially these days, there’s such a fear that if we’re seen making a mistake, making a human error, and failing publicly, it will reflect poorly on us. People will like us less, trust us less, respect us less.

But the research around this is fascinating.

My godfather was a British psychiatrist - he had a love for Admiral Horatio Nelson and a collection of antique swords. He used to say this in a way I like much better than “the pratfall effect.” He would tell me:

Everyone admires the person who plays the concerto perfectly 100 times. But everyone cheers for the violinist whose bow snaps.

I have thought about his wisdom so many times. We lost my godfather a couple years ago, I still have all of his letters written in beautiful fountain pen. Isn’t it a tender thing that we get to be an amalgamation of every person who has ever loved us? What are we but a patchwork quilt of their quirks and qualities.

I digress - the audience already knows the violinist in question is playing at a high level - they’re accomplished - they’ve gotten here.

But now something has gone wrong, and suddenly everyone in the room is willing her forward.

Come on. You’ve got this.

I think professionalism isn’t trying to sell the illusion that your bow will never snap. It is realizing everyone can see that it did, acknowledging reality, and showing them you know how to keep playing.

3. Preparation is not the same thing as control.

I am the eldest daughter of immigrants and, my friends, I am a certified preparer.

In a notebook, in black marker with an orange highlighter, I’d map out the 11 or so live interviews I’d prepare for during my live three hour show. I wanted the background - the old interviews - the timeline - the contradiction buried three paragraphs into an article from six years ago. And the obvious question everyone had already asked (so I could avoid wasting precious airtime asking it again).

There is an art to this preparation, you want the questions air tight and the order matters too - ideally stacked in a way that builds rapport, zags in hard, and ends graciously.

But even with this preparation - very often, the person would sit down and say something in the first thirty seconds that made half of those questions irrelevant.

Here’s the lesson:

Preparation should give you enough footing that you are free to leave the path.

If you know the material well enough, you can hear something unexpected and rather than be derailed, think: Wait. There’s a door there. And walk through it.

I know as a viewer or listener, you can tell when this hasn’t become part of an interviewer’s DNA yet. They have their tight, excellent ten questions, but then the guest answers question four during question one, you hear something obviously fascinating appears in answer three. There’s a hesitation, a strange word choice or a micro-expression.

And the interviewer blithely ignores it all, looks down and asks question five.

Ooof. It’s the nerdy news consumer in me, but I’m literally sweating with frustration thinking about this scenario.

What you’ve seen, I’m sure more than once, is an interviewer who has prepared so thoroughly for the perfect conversation they gameplanned in their head - they end up missing the one actually happening right in front of them under the glow of that unforgiving countdown clock.

Television gave me more dramatic versions of the same lesson.

I can’t tell you how many versions of this I’ve experienced: you’ve spent hours preparing an entire broadcast and then, shortly before air, there’s a natural disaster. Or strikes in Iran. Or a major public figure has suddenly died. Or there is an assassination attempt on a president.

The rundown you so carefully built will now never see the light of day.

I think I confused preparation for control for a long time outside television, too. But you and I both know you can not out-prepare or out-plan uncertainty and chaos in life. That doesn’t make the preparation useless - harness it to make you more flexible.

So, fellow preparers, go ahead and prepare deeply. Have the foundation, know your plan. And then pay enough attention to notice when something better, bizarre and true starts to happen instead.

Let me know if any of this struck a chord with you below. Until next time.

Some quick. Some wonderfully specific. And a few turned out to have much longer answers than I expected. This one deserved it’s own Sunday Note. Don’t forget to scroll to the bottom and vote on which question you’d like answered next.

Thank you to Cal for this week’s question. He asks:

What is one of your earliest memories?

Mine involves smuggled cigarettes and a mountain lion. Let me explain.

When I was a child my grandfather came to visit, and even at the age of six I’d been told all of the stories about him– had been thoroughly warned – he had a reputation, a gambler and a womanizer.

A man constantly derided by the females in our family – and yet for being such a disappointment, he always seemed so damned happy.

When he smiled, his nose would spread wide across his face, a network of broken capillaries unfurling on either side of his nostrils from years of slamming down Maotai, the kind of liquor that will melt your fillings. Up until the end, when COVID finally took him with startling speed, he was never sick.

As a young man, ostensibly before the blood vessels found their permanent home on his face, he was forced to flee the communist uprising in China and moved to North America where, for the first time in his life, his smooth scholar’s hands were toughened by work in a factory, cutting cedar shingles. He quickly learned one English phrase which he still said often, a throaty “HOW are you?” with a handshake so vigorous it bordered on violent.

He was a spectacle for a six year old. My mother had told him in her firm way, no liquor and no smoking while he stayed in the house. I watched from inside the kitchen as he stole silently out the back, walked into the middle of our yard and took out a crumpled green pack of smuggled cigarettes.

At that moment, I also saw a large mountain lion jump our fence.

Our home bordered a nature preserve. It was wild and exquisitely beautiful, all tangled oaks and marshy valleys, and I could hear mourning doves calling out their plaintive coos from my bedroom. Only later did I discover how the expansiveness of the land made my mother feel even more desperately lonely after my brother’s diagnosis, how her heart was keening every day we lived there.

The lithe mountain lion stalked, from where I was standing behind the glass, I could see its muscles rippling under a coat of fur. I was frozen. I thought I should call for help. I didn’t. I just stared. I remember my breath on the windowpane.

The animal crouched low to the ground, its eyes fixed on the back of a rotund Chinese man with his hand rummaging in his pockets, searching for his lighter.

He found it. He took a long drag, blowing out a cloud of thick, noxious, billowing smoke.

The animal raised it’s nose to the air… and left.

My grandpa finished his cigarette and came back in, pretending he just went to admire the irises.

Me, pretending I’d seen nothing.

Vote on what question you’d like answered next - and share with me by leaving a comment below, what’s one of your earliest meaningful memories?

For several hours each night, it continuously lights up and buzzes with social media push alerts and “new subscriber” notifications coming through.

Many of you have written to tell me the sequence: you turn on my old show, notice I am no longer at the desk, search my name and eventually find your way to this page.

There is something almost tender about being looked for. Thank you.

I have been knee-deep in something I am so excited about, I feel it like a humming in my chest. I can’t tell you about it yet (an unnatural and possibly medically-inadvisable condition for someone who has spent her adult life telling people things). It’ll be some time, but I can’t wait to share. More to come.

But in the meantime, I thought Sundays might be a good place for us to find one another again.

I’m starting The Sunday Note: a place for a story, an essay, a question, a conversation, or something I can’t stop thinking about. Some weeks it may be substantial and others may be more brief. I’ll often read it aloud too, because that’s been our ritual, you and me, for four-plus years now.

This first Sunday Note begins with the question I’m asked often these days:

Do I miss live television?

Of course I do. Aaand the complete answer is more complicated, as it always is.

I do not miss the countdown.

I know that is nearly sacrilegious for a broadcaster to admit. The red light, the music, the voice counting backward, your trusted EP relaying breaking news in your earpiece— these elements are supposed to amount to the intoxicating part. The rush of it all.

Mostly, I felt hot.

I kept the studio so cold that people complained it was an icebox, because beneath the lights, under layers of television clothing, with a brain working on overdrive to synthesize information in real time, I often used to say I felt like a Costco rotisserie chicken: overheated and glistening under scalding lights.

In short, I did not thrill at the countdown.

What I miss often came later.

It was the moment, sometimes several minutes into an interview, when I knew it made a difference that I was the person in the chair that night.

Over my live three hour show, we often conducted 11-plus interviews. Just four or five minutes apiece. An absurdly compressed amount of time in which to understand a war, a public-health emergency, a mass shooting, a natural disaster, a life.

With generals and experts, and anyone running for or trying to keep office, the work was to cut through the practiced language and generic talking points as quickly as possible. To try to cut to the heart of the thing, to surface something tangible and useful and true.

With survivors, it was something else.

A Holocaust survivor once told me how her mother slipped her wedding ring to a Nazi soldier to secure her daughter’s escape. There are stories for which no clever questions are required. What is needed is to become still. I would sometimes visualize it, dropping into my heart. To listen closely enough, to not just the words, but the nuance — in order to know when to speak and when any interruption would be tantamount to an act of violence.

The same was true with people speaking from the wreckage of a tornado, or after a mass shooting, or from the wretched, anguished suspended hours after losing a home or a child. My job was to be fully with them while also being the conduit between them and you at home—to give them the platform, to clear the path, and help make what happened urgent, human and legible.

What a gift that was.

What an honor.

I was speaking just this week with a woman who has spent much of her life in broadcasting. With candor I deeply respect, she told me while there are many gratifying things about the work, her favorite moment in every show has always been the same: the opening line, when she gets to say, “Welcome. My name is…”

I was so glad she said it. I am always interested in the thing that is plainly true for someone, especially when it flies in the face of a neater or more expected narrative.

But for me - at the top of my broadcasts, I often rushed through my own name.

The part that lit me up was knowing that, because of everything I carried into that moment, I could sometimes help people see the story more clearly -- to see another human being more clearly.

The instincts I relied on most in that chair were forged long before television. I grew up the eldest daughter of immigrants and the sister of a profoundly disabled brother. I learned early to read a room before anyone spoke, to notice what was changing beneath the surface, to find composure and present polish even when things around me felt chaotic.

Later came studying science, then journalism, and the training. But the instinct - the hypervigilance, the knowledge that all of us are carrying the scars of often invisible battles, that there is always more than meets the eye - all of that, came first.

On the best nights, all of it became useful.

That is what I miss. Not the countdown, the feeling that it mattered that I was there.

And, of course, I miss the viewers. This career creates a type of intimacy. I bristle at the term “parasocial” and I’ve been seeing celebrities say it a lot recently in movie junkets and interviews — referring to a one-sided emotional connection with someone who likely doesn’t even know they exist. I bristle at it — because for me, it’s not one sided. I feel it, too.

I’m very lucky, I reported in San Diego then anchored in San Francisco before going to the network. So many of you have been with me for years. And now, with this new chapter, my goodness have you blown me away with the kindness coming in. As I write this, here’s literally the most recent one that just pinged on my phone from viewer Suz: “She amazed me every weekend. She knows just the right questions to ask. She asks the hard questions but in a kind way. She is my all time favorite.”

And from Cathy: “I am having ‘NATASHA WITHDRAWAL!’ I truly found the perfect news anchor in you. impartial, beautiful, compassionate, calming, smart, articulate and finally a person who gives me news without drama. You brought me to NewsNation, please come back to us in a new role soon.”

Come on. I’m willing myself not to turn away and deny some of these compliments, I want to try to force myself to soak in your words. In you all, I have an embarrassment of riches.

And.

There are things I don’t miss. At all. I won’t get into all of it just yet, but here are just a quick three.

• I worked the morning show for seven years of my career. Meaning I woke up dark and early at 1:30am every day through much of my 20’s. There are consequences that I am still grappling with.

• This career and ones like it have a strange gravitational pull — they can inexorably consume every hour not spent at work, every part of your life. For my entire adulthood I have architected my existence around scaffolding this thing. At the expense of everything else.

• And then there were the downright scary things. The mentally ill men, more than one, who believed we were married and were irate that I wasn’t “wearing my wedding band on TV.” The one who sent me a treasure map with an x, to show me where he’d buried gold for us to survive the apocalypse. And worse.

So: do I miss live television?

I miss it in ways that are both profound and extremely mundane.

I miss the people. I miss my makeup artist, and not for the incredible blowout that she did — but rather for her updates on the feral cat she rescued she named “Brother.” I miss my floor director and the hoodie he’d resentfully wear because of the aforementioned tundra-level temperature I kept the studio. I miss my EP, who just welcomed a second beautiful child, and his specific habit of standing and practicing a muscle-memory baseball pitch as we’d discuss our next big investigation and what it would take to get it greenlit.

I miss the feeling on the best days, when I felt one of those investigations deeply mattered, when I’d hear a story managed to change legislation and people’s lives.

I miss our appointments on Saturdays and Sundays.

I still love TV. I remain interested in what it can do, especially when it gives a story enough time, doesn’t succumb to driving an agenda and trusts an audience’s intelligence. I strove for that and championed that mission fiercely. It kept me up at night.

I am also interested in what can happen beyond the desk: on a page, in a longer conversation, through a project built with room for curiosity.

That is part of why I am here.

As I mentioned, I would like to make Sunday a point of connection again. Thanks for staying with me for my first Sunday Note.

And for the next note, I want to try an audience mailbag.

So tell me: What is something you have always wanted to ask me but assumed was too small, strange, specific, or impolite? (Keep it clean, friends!)

You looked for me. I noticed. And I’m very glad you found me. Until next time.

If you’d like to keep meeting here on Sundays, subscribe and I’ll send the next Sunday Note straight to you. It’s free.

Over four years at NewsNation, I anchored more than 500 shows.

My last one on Sunday night was three hours long, packed with live guests and breaking news. Over those 180 minutes, I interviewed a California gubernatorial candidate, a Los Angeles mayoral candidate, a congressman on the classified UFO briefings he was privy to, a general on the status of the war with Iran, with regular live bumps of the anti-ICE protests unfolding in New Jersey.

It was as it often is, breathless, focused — and despite my intentions to savor this final show — it went by all too quickly.

Suddenly, it was 9:50pm CT. Just one three-and-a-half-minute commercial break standing between me and my final sign off.

I physically willed myself into the moment. I steadied myself at that lucite desk, under the familiar glare of a constellation of lights, surrounded by giant glowing blue monitors. And, blessedly, for the first time in the weeks leading up to this moment, everything slowed down. I felt a wave of deep gratitude wash over me.

NewsNation is in roughly 70 million homes. I’m proud that my show, Prime, was the first at the network to beat CNN and MSNBC (now MS NOW) in the ratings. I’m often asked what it’s like to “perform” for a simply unimaginable number of people.

The truth is, anchoring is a relatively solitary activity. I’m mostly alone in a massive studio space, with the exception of a couple “steadi camera” and jib operators, plus a floor director (at NewsNation, a wonderful man named Gary who passionately loves two things: double chocolate Stan’s donuts and his astonishingly brilliant daughter who can calculate the flow rate of creeks).

I still get nervous speaking in front of large crowds. But the desk, my molded IFB earpiece piping in my executive producer’s voice and the reporters’ stories, this cloistered place has become my safe space over the years.

In that commercial break I did what I often do before the red light goes on. I thank the family members stretching back who I’ll never know, those who have sacrificed and come before me, the women who never would have had the luxury of dreaming a wild dream like this one. I think of my brother, who has severe Autism and is nonverbal, who will never get to graduate high school let alone pursue a career like this. Everything I do, I do for the both of us.

And as the floor director counted me down — how do years fly by and there’s suddenly just 10 seconds left? — I remember having one thought, “God, be with me. Use me as a vessel. Guide me through this.” The red light blinks on.

It is hard to put into words what these years have meant to me. Breaking news, long nights, investigations, gut-wrenching interviews, and stories I will carry with me for the rest of my life.

During my time at NewsNation, I was honored to receive the National Emmy Award for Outstanding Emerging Journalist, awarded to the nation’s top journalist under 35.

I was also deeply proud that our reporting earned the network an Edward R. Murrow Award for Growing Broke, our investigation into forever chemicals with Erin Brockovich. During my time here, I got to bring NewsNation its very first Emmy and it’s very first Murrow.

Those honors mean a great deal to me. But the most meaningful part of this work has always been the people who trusted me with their stories:

Women who came forward with what happened to them behind prison walls.

Families who were experimented on without their consent.

Area 51 veterans getting sick, fighting for acknowledgement while the Pentagon still keeps them classified.

Farmers whose land, bodies, and livelihoods have been devastated by forever chemicals.

Those are the stories that kept me up at night. Throughout these four years I’ve gone through long spells of waking a 3:00am with my heart pounding, a buzzing in my gut, thinking of the people who have trusted me, the need to get it right.

And the work continues.

I am moving into an exciting new chapter, and I’ll have more to share soon. For now, this is where I’ll be staying connected with you directly.

If Substack is new to you, it’s simple: you can subscribe with your email, and my posts will come straight to your inbox. Many of them will be free. This is also where I’ll share essays, behind-the-scenes notes, and the stories that don’t always fit neatly into a television segment.

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In the 24 hours since my sign-off, I’ve been overwhelmed by the sheer volume of kind messages you’ve sent me. My phone has barely stopped. I’ve read every one I can.

One of you wrote I was the highlight of your week, calm and steady, “an effective antidepressant” in this often overwhelming world. One of you said, “I miss you already and you just said goodbye.”

And more than one of you told me, “I’ll follow you anywhere.”

I don’t take that lightly.

I have felt the way you’ve embraced me, cheered me on, stood behind me, and demanded answers alongside me. That has been one of the great privileges of my life.

So this is not goodbye.

This is where I’ll be.

Thank you for being here at the beginning of what comes next.

Onto the next chapter,

Natasha

P.S. If you want to stay connected, subscribe here and you’ll get new posts by email. If someone else has been asking where to find me, you can send them this page.

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