Episode 02 – Colleen Hoover

Hey everybody, this is Brandon with a Blueprint. One of my favorite people I’ve ever met in my life is here today. I’m so excited about this interview—super genuine, has done so many things. I can’t wait for her to tell her story. Colleen Hoover, New York Times bestseller—what is it, 175,000 right now? I can’t wait for you to hear what she’s got for us. So, Colleen, how are you?

I’m great. What an intro, man.

Well, thank you so much for coming on with us. Today is really about talking to people and telling them your story and where you came from. To start off, thank you so much for being so transparent with everybody out there. I follow you on social media, and I think that’s how we even met to begin with. It’s been really cool to see the connection that you have with so many people out there. It’s even made me think about that when I do my own social media—rather than just dropping a message on people, I notice the way you sometimes make fun of yourself.

I’m very self-deprecating. It’s fun.

Cool. Tell me your story—tell me where you started.

Oh God, where do you want me to start? I feel like I’ve lived a million lives. I’m from East Texas—Northeast Texas—born and raised in Hopkins County. I met the love of my life when I was 16. We didn’t get married at 16, but we waited. I went to school, we started having kids while I was in college, and I thought I was going to major in journalism, but I ended up majoring in social work because it was a faster track. I was like, “Journalism is not going to feed my kids. Where am I going to get a job around here? I need something that puts food on the table.” So I majored in social work and did that throughout my 20s. Then, when I was 31, I got bored—my kids were young and busy with their lives, my husband was a truck driver over the road—and I started writing this story that turned into a book. It kind of went crazy from there.

I remember when you first told me about it—you said a family member wanted to hear some of your older stories.

Yeah. I finished this story about an 18-year-old girl—considered young adult—and I’d been telling my family about it because I didn’t know anything about publishing. I didn’t even look at it like it was a book. I kept telling people, “I wrote a story. Do you want to read it?” My grandmother wanted to read it, and she had just gotten a Kindle for Christmas—this was Christmas 2011. I Googled how to get a Word file onto a Kindle and found you could upload books to Amazon self-publishing. So that’s what I did. I self-published the book on New Year’s Day 2012 just so my family could read it on their Kindles. That year everyone was getting a Kindle.

By May of that year, that book had hit the New York Times as a self-published book. I didn’t have an agent, an editor, or a publishing house. I had no idea what I was doing—it was simply word of mouth. People started buying it, and it debuted at number 13. I thought I was being punked when I got the phone call that it was going to be on the New York Times. I was still working full-time as a social worker. Crazy.

So you just put something out, a family member asked, and that changed your path.

Yeah. We were happy—my husband and I were happy with our kids, and we thought life was great—although we were broke as heck. We lived in a single-wide trailer. We didn’t have a front doorknob because it was like $12; we shoved a washcloth where the doorknob was. When people started downloading the book, I got about 30 cents a copy. I remember telling my husband, “Oh my gosh, I think we’re going to be able to pay our water bill with this,” and we were stoked. I can’t tell you how little my expectations were for this book and this career. To see what it’s turned into—I still wake up in shock.

From the time you released it and thought you’d pay a bill or two, when did you start thinking, “Maybe I need to get my act together and think about the other roles that go with this”?

It took me a bit. When it hit the New York Times, I started getting calls from agents and publishers. That’s when I thought, “What if I can make a career of this?” The problem was I loved my job. I loved the women I worked with. I’d been there four years. I had a degree in social work and was actually making $9 an hour with a college degree, but I couldn’t quit because I loved those girls so much. It was hard to make that choice. My boss, Stephanie, said, “Do it. If it doesn’t work out, come back. You have to chase this.” I’ve always wanted to be a writer; I just never gave myself enough credit—impostor syndrome, three kids, all of it. I credit the ladies I worked with.

We always talk about support systems—they’re everything. I credit my wife for anything I get to do. What’s your husband’s reaction been throughout this?

Oh my God, don’t get me started. I’ll cry. He’s my best friend and biggest supporter. He doesn’t read my books and I love that. He is so proud of me—full of pride. We went and watched the movie that’s coming out in August—we got to see an early cut—and he cried through the whole thing. I could do nothing without him. He makes my life so much easier. I haven’t had to do laundry or dishes in 13 years. He became a stay-at-home dad once the writing career started working out.

Twenty-four years this past Saturday.

That’s amazing. So you started with the first book, things ramped up, and people were calling. You had to make decisions. Did you choose someone or wait it out?

It’s interesting how I went about it. I never got into it thinking, “I want to see my books on the shelf,” or “I want a specific publisher.” When I signed with an agent and started getting offers, they were terrifying. I had written my first two books back-to-back and was working on a third. I’d done it all by myself. Offers from publishers terrified me—I didn’t want a boss or deadlines. I was afraid I wouldn’t work well under pressure. I actually got a seven-figure offer from Macmillan for four books—they wanted the two I’d already written and two future books—and I turned it down. It was life-changing, but what if I couldn’t write those books? I didn’t want to owe someone money. I ended up getting an offer from Atria Books for just the two I’d already written and published. That felt less risky. You get less royalty with a publisher, but they can get it into more hands—pros and cons. I signed with them and was appreciative, but when I finished my third book, they wanted that one too, and I turned them down and self-published my third one again. That one became the first self-published fiction novel to hit the New York Times at number one.

That’s crazy. A lot of people wonder how to do this—how to get something out there. You took the “do it myself” approach.

I think it helped that I went into it without goals, just dreams. When it became reality, I had to stay centered and ask what mattered most: money? Being able to say a certain publisher’s name? None of that was why I started. I reminded myself I enjoy writing and connecting with readers. At that time, it was different—social media was new, and traditional publishing kept distance from readers. Self-publishing had a horrible stigma—people thought it meant you weren’t good enough. That’s changed a lot. It was hard, especially when they dangle carrots. But happiness means the most to me. Writing when I want to write—no deadline, no boss—was what would make me happy. Money was never the important thing. We were poor but happy. Because money wasn’t my motivation, I made decisions that benefited me more than if I’d chased the money.

How would you describe your books to someone who doesn’t know you?

I’m the worst at describing them. They’re all pretty different. Some are YA and teen-friendly because I was in the mood to write that. Then I’d write something really heartbreaking for adults, then a thriller where I murder lots of people. I have a paranormal ghost story. I had a conversation with a prominent editor from my dream publishing house who wanted to brand me as women’s fiction because It Ends With Us had done well. That’s when I checked out—if someone tells me what type of book I have to write, I don’t want to write. I’m not known for one book or one age range. I write what I want to read, and sometimes that’s different. The best thing I did for my career was not knowing the rules—and not listening when people tried to give me rules.

That’s a common thread with artists in general. The only thing they’ll accept is an open canvas. Give parameters and the creativity struggles.

It’s easy for me to say because things have gone well for me, so sometimes I feel hypocritical. I don’t want to lead people the wrong way. Maybe there’s a formula if you want a career out of it. But I truly believe I wouldn’t have been jaded if I hadn’t made money—I would’ve enjoyed writing just as much. It depends on your intentions with your art.

You get jaded when you try to mirror someone else’s path and it doesn’t happen the same way. You start to hate what you do.

Exactly. Everyone’s their own individual. Stay true to who you are, stay connected to the magic.

I think people can feel it. There have been books I didn’t fully connect with but was on deadline and had employees to pay. I could tell which would resonate because they resonated with me. That’s why I’ve slowed down. I haven’t written in quite a while—I’m not putting something out just because I have a large audience. I haven’t written in two years; I just started my next book. I want to be happy with it. Of course I want readers to like it, but that’s never been what brings me joy.

The cool thing is how we met. You reached out on social media about illustrations for one of your books. Once people reach out, you’ve got to vet. I started looking you up—turns out you were about 40 minutes away from where I was living. You said the book was Without Merit, and you wanted me to play the role of a high-school artist.

Exactly—an aged-down kid artist. I didn’t want to insult you, but I needed you to back it up a little. Even then, the art you gave me was so good.

I had so much fun. You gave me a concept: someone drowning and trying to survive—trying to take themselves out and even failing at that. We kicked around ideas—the cinder block floating on top of the water, rope, she’s sitting on the bottom—she can’t even succeed at that. It was fun to bounce concepts. Send me more sometime.

Yes, that was so much fun. I was just talking to Heath on the way here and showing him the purses you’ve been doing recently. I really want one. I like how you branch out beyond a painting in a frame. I remember two pieces I bought: the Doors painting on a door and the Amy Winehouse painting on wine corks. It’s so creative—it’s more than just a canvas.

You make everything your canvas.

Even DJ3 here with the McDonald’s—those are McDonald’s bags, receipts, Happy Meals. It’s fun to use real-life things to pin the story. It gives people things to discover over time. I don’t want “pretty picture, pretty colors”—I want a deeper conversation.

If someone buys a painting that means so much to you but they’re buying it because it matches their couch—does that hurt a little?

It does. I’ve sat at shows—some people know I’m the artist and some don’t. I once asked a guy about a painting and he told me my whole life story—he didn’t know my face. It was funny. Then there are times when you put something out that really hits. I did portraits with neon across the face—“Love Me,” “Hold Me,” “Kiss Me.” The story came from seeing a woman treated like a trophy. I’d judged her—thought she had the world by the tail—but realized it was a curse. I had to paint her multiple times to get it out of my heart. Then I painted the guy—came in as a king, rip the painting, and he’s a jester underneath. Sometimes you have to paint or write to wring out what you’ve absorbed.

Yeah. It Ends With Us was inspired, very loosely, by my mother and father’s relationship. She’s my hero—strong and independent. I knew their marriage was abusive. I wrote the book to get in her head and understand why she stayed. My dad was a great dad and charismatic, but a terrible husband. She loved him most of the time. It’s not as simple as walking away. I hoped the book would help people be less judgmental and show that you can leave. A lot is made up—it’s fiction—but the first time he hits her in the book is exactly what happened between my parents.

How hard was it to write that?

So hard. In the book, I really liked the male character who eventually does those things. I kept wanting to take it a different direction, but I stayed the course. It was also hard to send it to my mom and have her read it, but I wanted to know if I got it right.

Did you tell her beforehand it was about her?

Oh yeah, I asked her permission. I wouldn’t have done it otherwise. My dad passed away when I was 25. My mom never talked about the abuse. I might not have known if not for my dad—he was open about it. He was an alcoholic when he was younger—dealt with demons. As he aged, he realized his mistakes. I don’t know if he changed—maybe he never got a chance to fall in love again. He constantly regretted his early decisions. He was the first to say he was a terrible husband.

Often toxicity doesn’t show up at the beginning. It leaks out over time. By the time it’s obvious, you’ve got kids, no money, no career—how do you leave? In your book, it’s a little easier than it was for your mom. There were no resources. She didn’t have a degree. It’s no longer “Why did you stay so long?” but “How did you get out?” She said there was a whole year we ate beans and Kraft macaroni and cheese for dinner.

They’re so good.

They really are. You still eat mac and cheese?

Heck yeah. I prefer Kraft macaroni and cheese.

Did that cause a career decision for you? Your first job—children’s day center and such?

I don’t know. I had a very normal childhood after my mom met my stepdad when I was four—that’s what I remember. Growing up on a dairy farm, cousins, playing in the pasture, milking cows—great childhood. I have one or two early memories of violence, but I didn’t carry it with me daily. I’ve always enjoyed helping people. Fun story—when I was in high school filling out FAFSA because we were broke, my mom gave me their tax forms. My senior year they made $13,000 on the dairy farm. I was like, “How are we eating?” She was 40, I was 18. She asked if the government would pay for my college. I said yes. She asked if she could go to college. I said yes, filled out her FAFSA, and we both started college at the same time. She graduated in three years with a 4.0 while working full-time. She went into social work first and told me how much she enjoyed it. I changed to social work. It took me six years because I had about seven different majors.

Probably 20 jobs throughout college—what were those majors?

I started in journalism—always my dream. I got pregnant and thought, “How will I be a journalist as a mom?” I changed to nursing, then technical writing for a while. I actually have a degree in infant nutrition. I’m a little all over the place. I was a teacher for a year. I have three kids—they’re all grown adults now. My oldest is 23. They haven’t figured out life yet. Good—your 20s are for messing up. By your 30s you’ll know what you hate and what you love. No regrets. I had many jobs and majors—trying to find what made me happy. None of it made me happy until I sat down to write at 31. I didn’t know it would be a career, but I was happy in my job because I was fulfilling my passion outside of it. Even now, I’d be okay with that.

My oldest graduates in a week. Everything changes when you become a parent. You can’t explain it. I changed the moment I looked in my son’s eyes. I became responsible for helping him become the best version of himself. I used to think I had this much time to prepare them—now I’m like, “You can still hang out a little longer.”

That’s been tough for me. Because of the pandemic and how everything worked, mine all kind of left at the same time. It was a rough year. They’re my best friends. We’re very close. It’s changed, but it hasn’t. They come home and it feels the same. I got home at 11 last night; my youngest lives a few miles away. He asked if I was home—he missed me and wanted a hug. He came over at 11 just to see me. We could talk careers all day; don’t get me started on motherhood.

How many books do you have currently?

I don’t know—25, I think. My wife could tell you for sure. It’s weird—at one point some were split into three novellas and now it’s one book, and things changed as they switched publishing hands. I’m pretty sure it’s 25.

When we first met, my wife hadn’t heard of you. You gave me a book; she loves to read. Now she has every book you’ve written. People aren’t just fans—they’re super fans. What do you think causes that resonance?

Honestly, I have no idea. I get this question a lot. An author once tried to pay me to tell her what I’m doing at a signing. She wanted my following—asked what marketing company I use. She tried to hand me a wad of money because she thought I was keeping a secret. I think it’s a combination of things. In the beginning, social media started—I wasn’t a writer, just a mom who enjoyed social media and talking to people. As I started writing, I treated it the same way—very open, shared my life, slowly built a following. In 2012 when Slammed released and hit the New York Times, no one knew who I was; it was an ebook. You couldn’t find me in a bookstore for years. But I had my core readers who supported me. Every book added a few more. I never spent money on marketing—no ads. Amazon started charging a lot, and it makes me sad that some authors spend $20,000 a month on marketing because they think that’s what I and others are doing. This didn’t happen overnight—I didn’t really blow up until the pandemic; I’d already been writing for a decade. It takes patience. People give up after a few books if it costs more than they make. I’ve seen people not sell until their 30th book. Also, it’s rare for artists to make a living off their art—especially writers. I think the average income for a novelist is like $10,000 a year. No one can live on that.

I remember your bookstore—The Bookworm. Tell us about that.

The Bookworm Box was a charity my sisters and I started. We sent out signed books from different authors in boxes each month. We did it out of our living room at first. The first month we capped it at however many books we had—we raised $12,000 and donated it to charity. The next month, $15,000. It outgrew the living room, so we rented a space downtown in Sulphur Springs—very cute downtown. We had a storefront, and once a month we pushed books aside, built an assembly line, and shipped thousands of boxes. It became bigger than we expected. We donated $2 million over eight years.

That’s crazy.

It was. People traveled from all over—Australia, France, Canada. If they were going to be in Texas, they’d drive to Sulphur Springs to visit. Every book in the store was signed. You hung eight or ten pieces of art there for a long time. When we closed, you picked them up. It felt like a time capsule. I feel the same about my early books—I’m mortified by most of them. When someone asks if they should start at the beginning, I’m like, “Please don’t.”

Where do you feel like “this is me” right now?

There are aspects of older work I like and aspects of new work I hate a month later. I’m my own worst critic. I used to read criticism and learned a lot from it. I’d say my last three or four books are the ones I recommend to new readers—I don’t want them to start earlier.

Speaking of that—remember the Highland Park signing? I was late and nervous. I walked in and the place erupted. I thought maybe Elvis was behind me. You had told them to cheer for me.

I appreciate that story. My favorite part of all this is the readers. I have a different relationship now because there are millions of them. I used to have 100–200k on Instagram; now it’s 2 million. It feels different, and that makes me sad because I can’t make the same connection. Put a TV crew in front of me and I forget my name. But a room of readers and a Q&A? I could do that for 10 hours.

I could tell—you took time with each person. You’d sign first and hand the book to me to sign, and people looked at me like, “Don’t touch my book.”

No way. They’d have been mad if they didn’t get your signature. I love infusing extra elements—musicians, painters, poets—into books. Readers love any extra signatures. Those books never end up at Half Price Books.

I didn’t mean it negatively—I meant they were excited about you. Also, you have two million followers—when did that happen?

During the pandemic, TikTok blew up. I don’t know why my books took off there. I made several of them free for a couple of weeks when the pandemic started—the ones I still owned and had self-published. I thought people were off work for two weeks—“Here, free books.” I figured a few thousand would download. The next day it was hundreds of thousands. Everyone was downloading TikTok, BookTok was taking off, people had just read some books for free and went to get more. It helped that I wasn’t a one-hit wonder—I had 25 books. I remember logging on and having 10,000 more followers every day. My publisher called and asked if I had an ad. I said, “It’s TikTok.” They didn’t even know what TikTok was at the time. Around 2020 it started; 2022 and 2023 were the craziest years. It Ends With Us was the bestselling book of the year. At one point I had eight books on the New York Times list and outsold the Bible that year. People kept asking who my marketing team was or which influencers I paid. It was organic. Don’t give someone $25,000 because they tell you I did. Also—don’t ever pay a publisher. You should only be making money from a publisher.

Creatively, what’s the fastest and the longest you’ve taken to write a book?

I’m almost embarrassed to say this. I think about books for a long time and make notes. From initial idea to edited book—never less than six months; mostly a year. Verity was different—I was obsessed. It was my first thriller. I thought about it for months, took notes, and then National Novel Writing Month happened. I wrote Verity in a month. I had it mapped out, but I’m mortified to admit it because it did really well. The longest was Maybe Someday—used a musician on that one and it took about a year and a half. The longest will be my next book—I’ve been taking notes for a couple of years but working on other things. Finding time to write has been difficult.

People ask how long something takes. Sometimes I do a 30-foot-tall by 120-wide mural in a weekend, or I spend six months on a painting. They say, “You didn’t spend long—why should I pay?” It took 30 years to get this fast.

Exactly. With Verity I was writing 18 hours a day. The total hours were more than most books—just concentrated. Sometimes you write fast because you’re more passionate, not because it’s worse.

You’ve stepped into thriller and a bit of paranormal. Do you like that direction?

Absolutely. I had the most fun writing the thriller, but it’s harder to come up with a good thriller idea—or maybe I’m scared I won’t top it, so I hesitate. I’m proudest of Reminders of Him, Verity, and It Ends With Us. Those are also my three bestsellers. Readers don’t know which ones I’m proudest of, but I can feel what they’ll connect with because I connect with them while writing.

You mentioned impostor syndrome. People feel success is luck, not craft. How do you get past that?

When I describe my career, I use the word “luck” a lot. I’m self-deprecating and full of impostor syndrome. I won’t give writing advice or do master classes; I feel like I’m still learning. Up until 2020, I had a positive relationship with social media. Once a different kind of success hit, it got ugly. People don’t like successful people if they think they don’t deserve it—often other writers. I get tagged in posts. I work my butt off and put my heart into it. Maybe it’s timing, but maybe I tell stories people connect with. I’m trying to be kinder to myself and focus on that. It’s hard to drown out the noise.

They say you’ve made it when you have haters. There are two ways to have the biggest building: build yours up or tear others down. Some people grab sledgehammers. I’m thankful for haters—thanks for driving the algorithm.

Exactly. If you made a video about my book, you apparently bought and read it—thank you. The hardest part isn’t the negativity but how it changed my relationship with social media. I’ve had to protect myself. I feel guilt that I’m not there for readers like I used to be. I don’t let them in as much. Now it’s not just me they attack; it’s my children who didn’t ask for this. I’ve had to change how I engage.

You have to protect yourself. People become super attached. You’ve made a lot of people mad by being less accessible.

I’ve lost friendships over the last few years because I’m not as easily accessible. Number one is protecting your mental health—or your family will suffer and there will be no more art. We started at the same time and live close—that bond matters to me.

You’ve started coasting into a different avenue—film. What’s that been like?

Interesting. Very different than I thought. I just got back from LA last night—I’ve been on the Sony lot all week preparing for the trailer release of the movie coming out in August. I don’t know what to expect. It’s a whole different experience—really fun and eye-opening. I never realized how much goes into making a movie. I have a new respect for actors—acting is one of the hardest jobs. I don’t know how they do it.

What role are you playing—scripts, casting, notes?

I have several projects. The one releasing in August—I didn’t write the script, but they got my feedback and included me along the way. I won’t claim it as “my” movie—they made it. I’m extremely happy with it—it exceeded expectations. I expected the worst; now I fear it’s good. Blake Lively—her talent is unreal. I have other projects where I’m extremely involved—I’ve written scripts with my partner, Lauren LaVine, and we’re starting our own production company. I don’t want to go into which we’re working on first, but a couple are in the works where we’ll have a hand in everything. Verity was sold to Amazon; I don’t have as much involvement there—kind of like It Ends With Us—but it’s Amazon, so I have faith.

How much time are you spending in LA?

I do a lot over Zoom, so it hasn’t been hard. I’m mostly in Texas. I had to be there because Sony held a party for the trailer release and I had meetings. One good thing from the pandemic—they realized how much you can do over Zoom. My partner and I even wrote a script together over Zoom.

Do they have you on one of those robots on set?

I’m not on set like that. I did spend a couple of weeks when they were filming It Ends With Us in Hoboken. They sent me dailies—each night, producers watch what was filmed. That was really cool.

Is there an author who inspires you—by accomplishments and writing style?

My best friend, Tarryn Fisher—not just because she’s my best friend. Her sentences are art. I can write three chapters in six hours; she’s still on her second sentence because every sentence matters. I study her books. I feel like my talent is storytelling, not the prose. If I have to look up a word in a thesaurus, I’m not going to use it. Also, E. L. James (Fifty Shades of Grey). I’ve been friends with her from the beginning. The way she’s handled criticism and massive success—she’s consistent, genuine, generous. People make fun of successful people, but she remains gracious. She gives so much of herself and time to authors and readers. She still interacts with readers daily. She comes to my Dallas event each year, not because she has to, but to support the charity and our friendship. She’s a great friend and role model. Absolutely a mentor.

Is there an expiration date on your career?

No. I don’t look at it like that. As long as I feel like writing, I’ll be writing. I don’t have many goals left to “hit”—that was never the point. I’ll do this until I’m unhappy, because happiness is the only thing I want.

I tell everyone: I do my job, then I paint at night. People say I’ll burn out. No—these are logs on the fire. Some people need TV to recharge; that drains me. I need to stretch the muscle.

Exactly. I have an office downstairs. When I have free time to set up and dive into the story—that gives me energy, purpose, happiness. It makes me a better spouse. My husband even asks, “Do you need to go write for a while?”

All right—different direction. You look amazing. I’m proud of you. I told you about my wife’s shot and her transition, and you said you’re doing the same thing. Want to talk about that?

Absolutely. People aren’t honest enough, and it gets a bad rap. About a year and a half ago, I got put on it because my A1C and cholesterol were outrageous. I was diagnosed pre-diabetic. I got put on it for pre-diabetes. I felt like a failure—41 and taking more medication than my mother. After the first couple of months, I noticed I was losing a few pounds. I wasn’t even thinking about it. I obsess over food—bored, happy, celebrations—always food. Then it got approved for weight loss, and I told everyone, “I’m on this, you should try it.” I didn’t think about it for three or four months—got busy. Went to the doctor and was down about 30 lbs—the first time I’d lost weight as an adult. I had steadily gained since high school. This made a difference without me thinking about it. Every diet before made me more obsessed. This took that away. After about a year, I’d lost 100 lbs. I’m down 110. My A1C and cholesterol are back to normal. Once everything was normal, I stopped taking it—also it’s pretty hard to find and I didn’t want to deal with that. I’m not on it now, but it worked for me. I truly believe it saved my life. When people complain that others take it without pre-diabetes, I’m like—100 lbs overweight leads there. We’re heading in the same direction. I’m happy for your wife. I have friends it hasn’t worked for. I owe my life to it. I feel good. I still weigh 200-something—I’m nowhere near society’s number, but I’m happy and my numbers are good. I don’t worry about where society says women should weigh.

Publicly, drastic change gets attention. It’s terrifying to admit. But it’s enlightening for people like my wife—good for them.

It’s been like that with anything that works—low carb, fasting—someone will hate it. Don’t look to the internet for celebration. Talk to your doctor, a therapist—figure out what makes you happy. I’m shocked by how many people have something to say. They do the same about surgery. To each their own. If it makes you healthier and live longer—isn’t that the goal?

It’s about how many healthy days you can get on this journey. I started testosterone about a year ago. I was exhausted (probably because I work all day and paint all night), sleeping four hours. I started therapy and bounced back. Now I’m sleeping seven hours a night. I’m not crazy in shape—I’m trying to be happy and healthy. It balanced me out. There’s a mental aspect too—how you feel about yourself matters. If this helps you get to “I’m okay with myself,” that’s as important as longevity. People tend to put themselves last.

I’ll close with this: this has been one of my favorite conversations. We never have shallow talks. You tear down barriers for people because you tear them down for yourself. It’s inspirational. Thank you for taking the time to talk with me.

Thank you for having me. I appreciate the role you’ve had in my career and life. Enjoy this last week before your child graduates.

It’s so sad. Graduation is next week. We’re doing lunch on the grass—like in kindergarten—full circle. That’ll make Mom and Dad tear up. That’s what it’s about—taking in those memories.

Congratulations.

Thank you, and congratulations to you too—all the success you’ve had. Well deserved. You are not an impostor.

Thank you. Thank you for having me. Thank you, everybody.