Capítulo 4
Motherhood's Unexpected Challenges: From Baby Blues to Ovarian Cysts
After Michael's emergency C-section birth, we both had to stay in the hospital for five days. He went to the NICU as a precaution when I developed a fever. The NICU nurses are angels living among us. Michael, at eight pounds, ten ounces, quickly became known as "King Kong" among the premature babies. I had a near nervous breakdown when separated from him, my heart rate skyrocketing until my doctor finally arranged for me to see him.
Getting to the NICU proved another challenge-despite hours of requests, no wheelchair materialized until my best friend Gretchen arrived and simply "borrowed" one without asking. Once holding Michael, I forgot all the pain and suffering. He recognized my voice, locked eyes with me, and I promised him things would get better.
Back home, our tiny apartment filled with family while my mother-in-law prepared an Italian feast. I may not have had a baby nurse, but I had Gretchen, my mom, my mother-in-law, and incredible female friends who pulled me through hormone shifts into motherhood.
Post-childbirth complications continued when Dr. Biggers discovered two more ovarian cysts after one had already ruptured during intimacy with Mark. While I lay there wondering when the next cysts would burst-while holding my son? In the shower? At work?-Mark happily munched on saltines and ordered a second apple juice like he was at a spa.
When Dr. Biggers asked if I had questions, I said no. But Mark immediately asked when we could resume sexual activity. I'm hoping she'll say "NEVER!" or "When Michael goes to college," but she says, "Oh, there's no reason not to resume sexual activity as long as you're not in any pain."
I consider faking pain but have never been one to cry wolf-I think it's important never to fake illness or orgasm. But I have no desire and escalating fear of intimacy with Mark, the love of my life. Then Mark surprises me by asking, "Should we wait six weeks before we resume sexual activity?" I'm almost in tears at this simple act of kindness-he said aloud what I only asked in my head.
Capítulo 5
From Soap Opera to Live! With Regis: The Unexpected Career Pivot
In October 2000, during Super Soap Weekend at Disney Hollywood Studios, Angela Shapiro, the president of ABC daytime, approached me during lunch. Despite my morning sickness and sweaty discomfort in the Florida heat (while Angela remained impeccably put-together), she casually asked if I'd consider hosting with Regis. I was shocked but she insisted I'd be perfect and offered to get me in the chair that week.
I was secretly eight weeks pregnant-only Mark knew-and terrified about the prospect. I wanted to decline due to my exhaustion and constant nausea, but couldn't bring myself to say no to Angela, my mentor. The night before my hosting gig, I had a pre-interview with producer Elyssa Shapiro who warned me about the dos and don'ts while distractingly chomping gum.
The morning of the show, Elyssa continued her gum-popping while reminding me of the rules: don't look at Gelman, participate in interviews but don't fade away after host chat, let Regis handle everything, and speak only when he's not speaking. When executive producer Michael Gelman appeared, I was confused about the "no looking" rule-was it for the dressing room too? Despite his friendly demeanor, I avoided eye contact while he performed stretches, read me newspaper articles for talking points, and reiterated all the same instructions.
During the psychic segment with Char Margolis, my worst fears materialized. She connected with my deceased grandmother Esther, then dropped the bombshell: "She's showing me another baby!" When Char directly asked if I was pregnant, I admitted I hadn't told my boss yet. The audience erupted in joy while I stood in shock as Regis announced, "Kelly Ripa is PREGNANT! News on the show!"
When I ultimately accepted the permanent cohost position, I faced bizarre contract stipulations: no using my own hair and makeup people, no wardrobe services or budget, no paid maternity leave despite my obvious pregnancy, and I was forbidden from having an office. Even my name had to be smaller than Regis's on all branding.
The audience assumes on-air personalities are best friends, but working on morning television is like any job-except America reviews your performance daily. When Regis claimed in interviews he never saw me after leaving the show-despite us seeing each other in elevators and him appearing on our Halloween show-the media seized on a narrative that I had gotten mad at him for retiring and dropped him. I could have pressed the issue and kept the news cycle going, but I didn't.
Capítulo 6
Aging Gracefully: Hollywood's Impossible Standard
They say one should grow old gracefully, but whoever "they" is has never worked in front of a camera. With pandemic work-from-home conditions, most of us work on camera now, leading to a boom in cosmetic procedures. Plastic surgeons and cosmetic dermatologists must be thriving-the size of my plastic surgeon's house has to correlate with our increased screen time. They do God's work, or at least the work God should have done.
I've known for my entire thirty-plus years in show business that aging should be avoided at all costs by everyone except a chosen handful. Men get to age, but only those who look good doing it. Social media trolls with dog avatars and private accounts get to age-these people are always triggered by anyone in a bathing suit or heading to exercise class, with bios declaring "proud gramma, love my guns, my Bible, and my country."
My foray into injectables began innocently enough. I'm actually a soap-and-water person who hates wearing makeup except when on camera. I first tried Botox in my armpits for chronic sweating, which I later realized was actually anxiety. This was my gateway into cosmetic procedures, though most of my friends were already getting Botox in their faces.
During this time, I became a tabloid target. The National Enquirer published weekly fiction about me with claims I was afraid of losing my husband, threatened by his success, jealous of everyone on television, and getting endless procedures-face-lifts, chin implants, cheek implants, multiple nose jobs, veneers, brow lifts, skin resurfacing, and my "favorite" headline: "KELLY'S SECRET BOOB JOB. WHAT WENT WRONG?"
Eventually, the stories stopped, and that's when I realized I must look like shit. Time to actually get some procedures. I visited Dr. Brandt, who danced into the room dressed in head-to-toe Prada. When I nervously asked about trying Botox in my face, he threw his arms up and cried, "I thought this day would never come!" The Botox experience was transformative-I watched my elevens between my eyebrows and crow's feet vanish before my eyes.
There's nothing graceful about growing old, especially when others' opinions infiltrate how we view our aging process. Internet trolls with anonymous accounts freely criticize public figures without consequence. So troll me about Botox or my "terribly old" neck if you must-I can take it. My face won't betray my feelings anyway-that's the beauty of Botox.
Capítulo 7
The Empty Nest: When Three Children Leave Home
I remember the exhaustion of early parenthood being overwhelming, but not as overwhelming as the joy, purpose, and intense love that made sleep, clean clothes, and hot showers secondary concerns. I just wanted to stare at our children constantly, watching them change minute by minute while simultaneously willing them to stay exactly as they were.
When Michael chose NYU, Mark and I were impressed by his luxurious dorm-a far cry from the dire conditions I'd imagined, with air conditioning and a park view that was four times the size of my first apartment. As we said our final goodbyes, we pulled Michael into an embrace, telling him how proud we were of him, his hard work and creativity.
Standing at the edge of Washington Square Park, Mark reassured me, "Babe, he's gonna be great." But when we arrived home, we were shocked to find Michael already there. "No, honey," I explained carefully. "Those activities are designed to help all the kids get to know one another." Lola pounced: "Are you kidding me? You're home already? What did I tell you? He couldn't stay away for five hours!"
Then suddenly we were doing it all again with Lola. California-bound Lola, who pushed back against any school that didn't feature palm trees. She had chosen to pursue recorded music, being a fabulous singer and songwriter. I was stunned when independent, warm-weather-loving Lola chose NYU too, insisting she wasn't going to the same school as her brother but to the Clive Davis Institute of Recorded Music.
Joaquin, our last child at home, couldn't tour colleges in person like his siblings had. By kindergarten, I noticed Joaquin struggled to identify letters, numbers, and symbols. Soon after, we received a formal diagnosis: Joaquin was profoundly dyslexic and dysgraphic. Yet his reading comprehension (when read to), vocabulary, memory, and recall were exceptionally high-functioning.
By 2017, Joaquin graduated eighth grade from the Stephen Gaynor School, where founder Yvette Siegel-Herzog's philosophy that "Every child can learn. Not every teacher can teach" transformed his relationship with education. After Gaynor, Joaquin was accepted into every high school where he applied. His teachers immediately recommended him for honors programs, and he gradually added honors English, math, science, history, and writing.
Ann Arbor proved to be a spectacular college town for Joaquin's University of Michigan experience. Moving into the dorm went smoothly, with wrestling teammates helping each other. That evening at the wrestling facility, we saw Joaquin's name on his locker filled with team gear. Coach Sean Bormett gave an inspiring speech about "Team 100"-so uplifting I momentarily imagined myself as the first parent walk-on Olympic wrestler.
The next morning, contrary to our expectations, Joaquin arrived for breakfast salty and quiet, giving one-word answers to our questions. I instinctively ran my fingers through his thick, wavy hair. "Mom, I'm gonna need a back scratch, too," he said, almost sounding like himself.
Walking to our rental car with arms around Joaquin, I silently replayed his life-sleeping in his bassinet, crawling in his diaper, climbing into our bed on Sunday mornings, proudly carrying his backpack to nursery school, catching a fish, holding my hands while dancing at a Bat Mitzvah, blowing out candles, finding Christmas presents, crying when changing schools, thriving and graduating with honors. "I really didn't know it would go so fast," I said, choking up as he felt simultaneously giant and small in my arms.
"We are so proud of you, Joaquin, and so excited for this next adventure," Mark said during our final group hug. As he turned to walk away, I called out, "Wait, Joaquin! One more..." thinking he'd laugh and return for one more hug. But he didn't. He walked away and kept going.
Capítulo 8
The Art of Surviving Embarrassment in the Public Eye
You cannot die from embarrassment-believe me, I've tried and it's physically impossible. You may want to die, but it just won't happen. After thirty-plus years in show business, I've mastered the art of embarrassing myself and somehow surviving.
At Jane and Jimmy Buffett's beautiful waterfront home celebrating Anjelica Huston's birthday, I found myself navigating the social dynamics of A-list dinner parties. Since Mark hates buffets, I made his overflowing plate with medium rare skirt steak, buttermilk fried chicken, grilled corn, various sides, and two biscuits. Every guest stared at my embarrassingly large plate, saying "Kelly Ripa, you do not eat all that food!" I'd respond, "No, I don't eat any of this food. I'm just dropping this off to the father of my children."
The evening took a dramatic turn when a woman collapsed face-down on the stone pathway. While most guests scattered, Richard Gere, Mark and I stayed to help. Richard cradled her head and spoke gently while I insisted Mark call paramedics. The woman eventually admitted she'd had a pot brownie.
For months afterward, I told everyone about "Richard Gere and me saving the life of a stoner on Long Island," much to Mark's annoyance. Later that summer at Sandy Gallin's home, I spotted Richard Gere in the buffet line. I interrupted his conversation with Mark by asking Richard if he remembered saving that woman's life together. After a pause, he looked at me and asked, "You were there?" Mark howled with laughter while I stood crushed, all my Golden Globe dreams evaporating.
Years later, at Fred Brandt's memorial service, the woman we'd helped approached me. "Kelly, you probably don't remember me, but you saved my life a few years ago at Jane Buffett's house." When I mentioned Richard Gere being there, she asked the perfect question: "He was there?"
Capítulo 9
The Vulnerability Behind the Television Persona
Despite hosting a talk show for over twenty years and interviewing countless authors, I felt an unexpected wave of discomfort about publicizing my own book. I've spent eighteen grueling months writing these essays, enduring physical reminders of the process - from chair-shaped buttocks to microneedling treatments necessitated by chronic sitting. The irony isn't lost on me: I've interviewed hundreds of authors about their books, yet here I am, not a professional writer, wrestling with my own manuscript. I'm fundamentally risk-averse and prone to second-guessing, nearly calling off the entire project multiple times during sleepless nights of doubt.
What I initially envisioned as light, entertaining stories evolved into complex emotional excavations that forced me to confront long-buried truths. Some memories weren't just unfunny - they were painful revelations that left me depressed, angry, or stunned at the casual indignities and unacceptable treatment I'd normalized for years. During their appearance on our show, James Patterson and Bill Clinton posed a question that haunted me: why wasn't I writing a straightforward memoir instead? They seemed particularly shocked when I admitted to having no co-writer, tackling this deeply personal project entirely alone.
The dichotomy between my public and private personas has never felt more stark. While I'm a studio extrovert who thoroughly understands my assignment to entertain and connect with audiences, the private me would rather vanish into thin air than face a book tour or tell the complete, unvarnished story. My well-honed ability to escape gatherings undetected - what my friends call my "Irish goodbye" - isn't just a quirky habit, it's a carefully crafted self-defense mechanism developed over years of managing public attention.
But here's the truth: we've known each other a long time, you and I. You've welcomed me into your homes for decades, watched my children grow from toddlers to teenagers, celebrated my triumphs, and offered silent support through losses that felt unbearable. You've been there through hair changes, weight fluctuations, and every professional evolution.
These stories, I hope, offer more than just entertainment - they provide insight into what it really took to get here and stay here, even through periods so destabilizing that getting out of bed seemed like an insurmountable challenge - though not quite as impossible as not showing up for work. And frankly, I owe much of my resilience to you, dear reader and viewer, for unknowingly getting me through those hard times with your consistent presence and support. I've carefully chosen what I'm prepared to share, balancing honesty with discretion, giving you what I think you can handle while protecting necessary boundaries. After all, as we say in show business, you wouldn't want to see a nightclub with the lights on - some illusions are better left intact.
