Unraveling, with Brooke Baldwin

Dearest Unravelers and Unravelers-to-be– 

Here we are. Week two. <<hands over heart>> Thank you for coming back for more. ❤️ An update from me below, but I also want to hear more stories of your Unraveling. So let’s keep going!

Takin’ this Substack on the road: Douro Valley, Portugal. August 2024

Hello — or bom dia! — from an Uber somewhere between Lisbon and Douro Valley (Portugal’s wine country). My man and I flew over here for a wellness retreat led by our Chosen Family, Natalie and Kevin, whose stories of resilience and survival deserve their own post. I planned this little get away for Peter and me some months ago because a) anytime someone offers up stunning scenery with a heavy helping of introspection and dharma, I’m a big HELLZ YES and b) my partner doesn’t drink but… a wellness retreat in wine country? Um, si, obrigada!

But humor me momentarily as we’re in this Uber (a Renault that has seen better days) with its 20-something year old driver who hot-wired this thing up with a screwdriver and a prayer (my own)… Did I mention this kid’s iPhone is shattered to bits?! I’m sitting here befuddled, wondering how he’s going to decipher the Waze map underneath the constellation of cracks. I couldn’t not clock it as Peter and I squeezed into this four-seater for our three hour journey to wine, I mean wellness, country. Of all the gin joints and Teslas, how did we end up in this beater? World travel, baby.

(Told ya. High-low girl right here.)

Peter and me, better buckle up baby, road to Douro Valley, August 2024

Aaaaaanyway. UNRAVELING. When I announced I’d be writing these newsletters (really they feel like journal entries for me), I got a lot of messages from you. I read ‘em all. This space of sharing just me (and ultimately also, just you)… feels exciting but also a tad trepidatious. For 20 years as a journalist, I was (happily) a vessel for others, telling other people’s stories. That’s my safe space. But I’m daring myself to be brave, to share my own stories here in this community. I have to say the comments in the “chat” space blew me away. Your unraveling stories, shares of feeling stuck ranged from an unhealthy marriage to a cult to a TV news job to chronic pain to death of one’s parents to near death of one woman’s mother. Stage 4 metastatic breast cancer. Shell detailed how her mother’s cancer journey unraveled her (how could it not). I’m just sharing the end of her much longer message to our community because I think it’s raw and beautiful and spot on:

Amen. As I wrote in my first post, Unraveling brings all of us closer to our truths. And there is no escaping suffering. (Fellow sufferer right here.) But gratitude is everything. More on that too.

BTW — One reason our “chats” are going to be subscriber-only is because it's a fact that even a small paywall keeps out trolls and lurkers and makes these intimate conversations among (like-minded, like-hearted) strangers a safe space.

If you'd like to join the conversation and you're not yet a paid subscriber, please consider upgrading here:

But the real question: how did the word “unraveling” first come into my vernacular? I’ll tell you exactly when: June 26, 2021. I know that because I wrote it down in the notes section of my iPhone. 🤓 I was two months out of CNN sitting on an Adirondack chair on a river near my then-home in Connecticut, inhaling all things Brené Brown. I stumbled upon something she refers to as a “midlife unraveling.” I believe Brené is a goddess, and I bow to her in how she blasted the door wide open on shame and vulnerability (BB, if you ever read this, I just want to thank you for your wisdom and bravery. I’d love to interview you aaaanytime). When I read her version of – not a “midlife crisis” as she explains, but a “midlife unraveling,” I’m pretty sure I spit out my coffee.

Here you go:

“The time in your life when the Universe gently places her hands on your shoulders, pulls you close in and whispers in your ear: 

I’m not fucking around. All of this pretending and performing, these coping mechanisms that you’ve developed to protect yourself from feeling inadequate and getting hurt, THIS HAS TO GO. Your armor is preventing you from growing into your gifts. And I understand that you needed these protections when you were small. I understand that you believed your armor could help you secure all the things you needed to feel worthy and lovable. But you’re still searching and you’re more lost than ever. Time is growing short. There are unexplored adventures ahead of you. You can’t live the rest of your life worried about what other people think. You were born worthy of love and belonging. Courage and daring are coursing through your veins. You were made to live and love with your whole heart. It’s time to show up and be seen.”

HOLYYYYYYYY SHITTTTTTTT.

<<Cue the first of many tears over this.>>

“I am unraveling,” I whispered outloud to myself.

Armor.

Performing.

Worried what other people think.

Guilty.

I later realized my armor from my CNN days also included quite literally what I wore on air: all those fancy dresses and high heels — plus all that makeup and hair (it was beautiful, and I adored my glam squad but by the end it felt like war paint.) During the pandemic our makeup teams were furloughed as us anchor types were tasked with doing our own makeup. Little secret: I felt terrible for the glam teams, my friends, and their families… but the lack of serious makeup felt appropriate for the time. With the help of my 30-something year old Swiss army knife producer curling my hair for me, I blotted on my own powder and foundation and felt so natural, so myself as I was interviewing these ordinary extraordinary Americans who were losing loved ones at a time when no one really knew what the hell was going on.

Back to that Adirondack chair, I wiped my tears and opened the notes section of my iPhone. I copy and pasted Brené’s unraveling definition along with this very direct question to myself: “Brooke, when would you put on your armor [at work]?” And then I got really honest with myself. It always helps me to write things down. It’s why I journal so much. It really helps me hold myself accountable. The permanence of my words on the page.

Three years later, I still have that note on my phone along with my answers to myself. I’m scratching out names, but I’m sharing the actual screengrab with you today. This is super personal and a little itchy to share. But it’s the truth. And I’m including it here because in order for us to grow — or unravel — and I’ll use myself here, I need specificity and examples. Here you go: