Going There


By Katie Couric

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This heartbreaking, hilarious, and brutally honest memoir shares the deeply personal life story of a girl next door and her transformation into a household name.

For more than forty years, Katie Couric has been an iconic presence in the media world. In her brutally honest, hilarious, heartbreaking memoir, she reveals what was going on behind the scenes of her sometimes tumultuous personal and professional life – a story she’s never shared, until now. Of the medium she loves, the one that made her a household name, she says, “Television can put you in a box; the flat-screen can flatten. On TV, you are larger than life but smaller, too. It is not the whole story, and it is not the whole me. This book is.”

Beginning in early childhood, Couric was inspired by her journalist father to pursue the career he loved but couldn’t afford to stay in. Balancing her vivacious, outgoing personality with her desire to be taken seriously, she overcame every obstacle in her way: insecurity, an eating disorder, being typecast, sexism . . . challenges, and how she dealt with them, setting the tone for the rest of her career. Couric talks candidly about adjusting to sudden fame after her astonishing rise to co-anchor of the TODAY show, and guides us through the most momentous events and news stories of the era, to which she had a front-row seat:  Rodney King, Anita Hill, Columbine, the death of Princess Diana, 9/11, the Iraq War . . . In every instance, she relentlessly pursued the facts, ruffling more than a few feathers along the way.  She also recalls in vivid and sometimes lurid detail the intense pressure on female anchors to snag the latest “get”—often sensational tabloid stories like Jon Benet Ramsey, Tonya Harding, and OJ Simpson.

Couric’s position as one of the leading lights of her profession was  shadowed by the shock and trauma of losing her husband to stage 4 colon cancer when he was just 42, leaving her a widow and single mom to two daughters, 6 and 2. The death of her sister Emily, just three years later, brought yet more trauma—and an unwavering commitment to cancer awareness and research, one of her proudest accomplishments.

 Couric is unsparing in the details of her historic move to the anchor chair at the CBS Evening News—a world rife with sexism and misogyny.  Her “welcome” was even more hostile at 60 Minutes, an unrepentant boys club that engaged in outright hazing of even the most established women.  In the wake of the MeToo movement, Couric shares her clear-eyed reckoning with gender inequality and predatory behavior in the workplace, and downfall of Matt Lauer—a colleague she had trusted and respected for more than a decade.

Couric also talks about the challenge of finding love again, with all the hilarity, false-starts, and drama that search entailed, before finding her midlife Mr. Right.  Something she has never discussed publicly—why her second marriage almost didn’t happen. 

If you thought you knew Katie Couric, think again. Going There is the fast-paced, emotional, riveting story of a thoroughly modern woman, whose journey took her from humble origins to superstardom. In these pages, you will find a friend, a confidante, a role model, a survivor whose lessons about life will enrich your own.



MY PETER PAN collars and sensible pumps didn't exactly scream Miami. It was a whole new world: causeways stretching across sparkling bays, cigarette boats, Cuban coffee, women roller-blading in bikinis. The pulsating city was about as far as you could get from my wholesome hometown of Arlington, Virginia.

It was also one of the hottest news markets in the country. I was a general-assignment reporter at WTVJ, where a normal week might mean covering a pit-bull attack, a tropical storm, a drug deal gone bad, and the Calle Ocho festival in Little Havana. For a young journalist looking to make her mark, Miami had everything.

My learning curve was steep. The run-and-gun of covering spot news was all new to me, while the terror of reporting live practically turned me to stone. But in Miami, you couldn't dwell on your mistakes. The stories came fast, which meant lots of airtime and plenty of practice.

One day after work I was buying a birthday card at Burdines department store downtown when the woman at the register started examining my face. "You look just like that girl on TV!" she said.

Cue the choir of angels. My first time being recognized.

"Actually, I am that girl on TV," I said with a smile.

The woman smiled back. "You know, dear, your skin looks so much better in person."


BEING ON TELEVISION brings instant familiarity: People feel like they know you. They assess you, analyze you, project on you; they develop strong feelings about who they think you are. If you become a fixture in their home, like another member of the family, they even start to care about you. And you start to care about them too. Loyalty is pledged, bonds are built. I am still so moved by the power of television to make connections between people who've never met. Perhaps like you and me.

Over the years, whenever I ran into TODAY show viewers, they'd tell me they felt like they knew me. And in so many ways, they did. Because the parts of me they saw were real—the joy and frustration, the bloopers and belly laughs, the genuine affection I felt for my colleagues. They saw me become a mom to two daughters and grieve the loss of my husband and sister; they even got a good look at my colon. But it was two hours a day in a manufactured setting. There's so much the audience didn't see.

I've been a public figure for 30 years, a journalist for 40. The journey has exceeded every ambition I ever had. It's allowed me to witness seismic events and huge societal changes up close, and help people—on a grand scale—understand them. It has been the privilege of my life.

But the journey has also been deeply personal: Summoning the grit to make my way in the male-run media business. Adjusting to the thrilling, chilling world of sudden fame. Learning on the job, and occasionally stumbling—with millions watching. Experiencing institutional sexism at the highest levels; hanging in long enough to see things start to change. Telling other people's stories while complete strangers tried to tell mine. Doubting myself, forgiving myself, being proud of myself. As I say, it's been a journey.


I'VE LOVED EVERY second of being on TV. And yet, it has a way of squeezing you down to a shape and size designed to fit comfortably in the nation's living rooms, bedrooms, and kitchens. In other words, the box can put you in a box; the flat-screen can flatten. On TV, you are larger than life but somehow smaller, too, a neatly cropped version of who you are. Real life—the complications and contradictions, the messy parts—remains outside the frame.

It's magical, television; I know it made my dreams come true. But it is not the whole story, and it is not the whole me. This book is.

Part I



THE SUMMER AFTER I graduated from college, my skin turned orange. I was on the Scarsdale Diet, a high-protein fat-melter that let you eat as many carrots as you wanted. The idea was to look as good as possible for my wet hot American summer, a sticky, sandy final fling before finding a job—maybe even a career—in TV news.

My plan was to wait tables in a picture-postcard beach town where the smell of fried fish mingled with the salt air; where my friends and I would spend the day slathering ourselves with Johnson's baby oil and lying out on beach towels, listening to the Bee Gees on our transistor radios. Then I'd shower, throw on a uniform, and hustle for tips at a restaurant on a shimmering inlet with skiffs scooting by.

That was the plan. Instead, I found a job at H. A. Winston's, located on a scrubby stretch of Route 1 in Delaware. The chain specialized in burgers with ambitious toppings (the Society Hill had blue cheese and chives; the Russian was dressed with sour cream and caviar). I loved the controlled chaos of the kitchen, shouting to the cooks over the pop and sizzle of the fryers, navigating the dining room while balancing dinner plates up and down my arm.

One night, a party of about seven or eight rowdy locals came in. They ordered round after round of daiquiris and beers, then burgers and fries plus onion rings and more fries, and I cheerfully kept it all coming.

After they left, I started piling their dirty dishes on a tray and saw my tip sitting there on the dark wood table: a quarter.

I put down the tray and headed outside, still in my apron, and scanned the parking lot. Then I spotted the guy I'd seen handling the check getting into his truck.

I walked up to the driver's-side window.

"I don't need your money," I said, and tossed the quarter into the cab.

Then I headed back to the restaurant, walking a little taller in my Tretorns.


I HAD SENT MY resumé to ABC News in Washington, where I figured it got sucked into the black hole of forgotten candidates. So I asked my mom if she'd drive me to the bureau in downtown DC. I liked the idea of having a getaway car (her cream-colored Buick station wagon) idling at the curb if things didn't go my way.

"Hi!" I said to the security guard at the bureau, busting out the biggest smile in my arsenal. "Is Davey Newman here?"

"Do you have an appointment?" she said, looking bored.

"Not really…I'm an old friend of his," I said, even though I'd never actually met Davey Newman.

"But you don't have an appointment."

"There's a phone over there," I said, pointing to a beige one hanging on the wall. "Do you mind if I call him?"

Heavy sigh. "Go ahead."

"Newman" came a gruff voice on the other end.

"Hi, it's Katie Couric!" I said and launched into the many minor ways our lives had intersected, including the fact that my sister Kiki went to high school with his twin brothers, Steve and Eddie. Shockingly, he let me up.

Davey looked at me over some wire copy he was reading; a cigarette smoldered in the ashtray on his desk. After the smallest of small talk, he passed me off to Kevin Delaney, the deputy bureau chief in charge of hiring—the same guy I'd sent my resumé to.

"Tell me about yourself," Delaney said, staring me down through lenses perched on the tip of his nose.

Knowing I was on borrowed time, I flew through my bona fides: recent graduate of the University of Virginia, American studies major, wrote for the college newspaper, interned at three different DC radio stations during the summers. I ended my spiel with "I really want to work in TV news."

"How did you get up here?" Delaney asked.

I confessed to the tenuous Davey Newman connection.

"Well," he said, smiling, "I admire your tenacity."

And with that, Kevin Delaney sifted through a thick stack of resumés on the corner of his desk, found mine, and put it on top.


BACK HOME, MY dad was at the kitchen table, eating a chipped beef sandwich with a glass of milk. I told him every detail as my mother chuckled quietly while stirring some Campbell's tomato soup at the stove. His blue eyes brightened, the corners of his mouth turning up ever so slightly.

"That's wonderful," he said in his soft Southern accent. "Katie, you've got moxie."

Moxie. I liked the sound of it.

A few days later, ABC called: "Can you start next week?"


ABC News, May I Help You?

I CAN STILL HEAR the cacophony of the newsroom—the clattering typewriters, the ringing phones, the whirring copier, the syncopated conversations between producers, reporters, assignment editors, cameramen. Discordant and thrilling, like a symphony orchestra tuning up.

I'd been hired as a desk assistant—a not-so-glorified girl Friday (and Monday through Thursday too). On my first day a gangly guy with a mustache named Mike showed me the ropes: how to make coffee, where to distribute the day's newspapers, how to collate the rundowns and change the ribbon on the teletype machine while wearing white cloth gloves so the purple ink didn't get all over your fingers. Everyone had an air of I belong here and I'm doing important things; men sauntered around in safari jackets, exhaling cigarette smoke and confidence. I felt so out of place. But you have to start somewhere, and I was determined to make the best damn pot of coffee these people had ever tasted.

Desk assistants didn't have actual desks, so I found a vacant seat and started answering phones (the first time I said, "ABC News, may I help you?" I got goose bumps). And suddenly a tall, eagle-eyed figure with dramatically arched eyebrows and a shellacked comb-over bounded in—White House correspondent Sam Donaldson. He came to a screeching halt when he saw me.

"You!" he bellowed. "What is your name?"

I felt the whole newsroom look my way. "Katie," I squeaked.

"Katie! Katie!" At which point, Donaldson literally jumped on the desk and started crooning, "K-K-K-Katy, beautiful Katy / You're the only g-g-g-girl that I adore / When the m-m-m-moon shines, over the cowshed / I'll be waiting at the k-k-k-kitchen door."

My cheeks started burning while everyone else just rolled their eyes and went back to their work—Sam being Sam, apparently. Then he jumped down and said, "Come with me!"

We hoofed it to the White House, about a half mile away, for the daily briefing. I was huffing and puffing in my summer shift and heels, desperately trying to keep up with Sam's long strides, as we approached the West Wing entrance. He grabbed my hand and whisked me past security, barking, "She's with me."

The press room was packed with pros holding reporter's notebooks and tape recorders. Sam plunged into the crowd while I stood stiffly against the wall, hoping no one questioned what the hell this 22-year-old nobody was doing there. I spotted legendary Helen Thomas in the front row looking like a harried housewife in a sea of men. Then they started lobbing questions at Jimmy Carter's press secretary, Jody Powell, fighting for information the nation needed to know. Afterward, Sam went off to his White House cubicle and sent me on my way. Returning to the bureau, I felt a bit dazed. Did that actually just happen?

Back in the newsroom, Mike pointed out Kevin Delaney's secretary, the person who'd be giving me my weekly schedule. Blond and so thin she was practically concave, Wendy Walker looked like she had just stepped out of Town & Country. I introduced myself and whispered conspiratorially, "Today is my first day."

"It's my first day too," she whispered back. I felt like grabbing onto her like a life raft. "Want to get lunch?" I asked.

Over salads, Wendy told me about her recent breakup with a curator at the National Gallery, about working for Ethel Kennedy and seeing Walter Cronkite do the limbo at Jackie Kennedy's 50th-birthday party in Hyannis Port. It all sounded so upper-crusty and out of my league. But later she'd tell me how her father had lost his job. After graduating from Hollins, a women's college in Virginia, she headed to Washington with $40 in her bank account and instructions to marry well. Coming from a frugal family, I realized we had more in common than I'd thought.

We shared something else too—the desire to succeed not by finding a husband but by having a career. It was the '70s—the decade of Roe v. Wade, Title IX, fiery debate over the Equal Rights Amendment, Barbara Walters becoming the first woman to co-anchor a Big Three evening newscast. I'd spent many a Saturday night for seven years watching The Mary Tyler Moore Show, transfixed by the ambitious, independent heroine setting out for a career in TV news.

Gee, I thought, I want to turn the world on with my smile too!


FRANK REYNOLDS, THE anchor of ABC's World News Tonight, gave off an air of old-school manliness. After the broadcast, he and his posse would sip scotch in his office and compare notes about what the competition had led their newscasts with. I'm pretty sure he spoke to me only once—in front of a Washington Post reporter who was writing a profile of him. I'd been asked to fetch him a ham sandwich from the deli next door, and when I returned, Reynolds looked up from the interview and said, "Thank you, dear." Largely, I guess, for the benefit of the reporter.

The backdrop of World News Tonight was the newsroom. To make sure viewers saw that it was a real, live, working newsroom, we were asked to be seat-fillers behind the anchor desk. I would always volunteer and pretend I was engaged in serious business—holding the phone to my ear, earnestly nodding and taking notes—when in reality, I was talking to my parents, urgently telling them to turn on the TV. "Can you see me? Look! I'm behind Frank Reynolds's right shoulder!"

Wendy and I did everything we could to get ahead. We memorized the office floor plan, learned everyone's names and what they did. We came in on Sundays to do extra work (we called it "Sunday school").

One of those Sundays when no one was around, I slipped into the anchor chair. Wendy handed me a script she'd found in a trash can by the teleprompter operator's perch. I proceeded to deliver a mock newscast in full-on Ted Baxter mode, before collapsing in laughter at how ridiculous we were.


Let 'Em Know You're There

OUR FAMILY TREE was just a sapling when my parents, John and Elinor, bought a tidy four-bedroom brick Colonial for $30,500 in 1957. I was 6 months old. It had shutters the color of Georgia clay and three windows facing the street on the second floor. When I was a teenager, the middle one would be aglow until I came home at exactly 11:50 p.m., just before my curfew. Our house exuded a modest solidity that also described my family.

Emily was 10 years older than me. She always seemed to be racing around with important things to do—studying for exams, going on dates and college tours. Clara was born three years after her. She was named for my maternal grandmother, but my father didn't love the name, so we all called her Kiki. She and I shared a room; Kiki would comb my hair, put it in pigtails, and treat me like a little doll. I remember watching her rush off to a football game in her cheerleading uniform, tossing her pom-poms and megaphone in the back of our dad's Sunbeam Alpine convertible (his one midlife indulgence), thinking, I want to be just like her.

Johnny came next. When he was 5, he stuffed pebbles up his nose; my mom had to take him to the hospital to have them removed with giant tweezers. We were partners in crime, getting into pillow fights—one of which brought down a ceiling light, shattering it into a million pieces—and giving each other wedgies, which we called "creepers." Sometimes he'd pin down my shoulders with his knees and let a loogie drip dangerously close to my face before sucking it back up. "Stop roughhousing!" my mom would scream from downstairs.

No one seems particularly surprised to learn that I was the baby of the bunch. My parents would put my infant seat on the dining-room table so the whole family could stand around and watch me—my first audience. Later, my sisters would entertain their suitors by instructing me to do a cartwheel and the splits on the living-room floor or sing "Jolly Old Saint Nicholas" while they accompanied me on the piano. I was more than happy to perform.

In summer, over corn on the cob and sliced tomatoes at the glass table on the screened-in porch, I'd hold court, telling a bawdy joke or making a racy comment; my mom's eyes would turn into tiny crescents as she laughed so hard her shoulders shook, barely making a sound except the occasional snort. Attempting to maintain some dinner-table decorum, my father would suppress a smile and say, "Elin-ah! Don't encourage her!"


OUR MOTHER WAS the ultimate protector and defender—a homemaker in the most concrete sense, always doing for us, pulling for us, waiting for us to come home. She'd tell me, "Everyone needs a cheerleader. I'm yours." She was sturdy in every way. When I was little, I'd spring up and wrap my legs and arms around her and hold on like a koala bear in a eucalyptus tree.

After two years at Sophie Newcomb College in New Orleans, my mom moved to Chicago and lived at the Three Arts Club while working as a cartographer at Rand McNally and doing layout for Coronet magazine. All of which seemed pretty exciting to me. My dad was nearby at officer candidate school; they met at a tea dance in 1943. My mom thought he was dashing in his navy whites; he thought she was "a dish" in her red paisley dress. While she waited in Chicago, he did a tour of duty on a naval destroyer in the Pacific, once operating a smoke machine to hide his ship from kamikaze pilots. Less than a year later, they were married, and his life became hers.

The mothers I knew growing up didn't have careers, with the exception of Christine Hughes's mom. (Dr. Hughes helped us with our sixth-grade science-fair project, which entailed pumping cigarette smoke into a fishbowl to show how nicotine would cause a goldfish to lose its equilibrium, sending ours into an aquatic barrel roll.) My mom's job was us—fixing our breakfasts, packing our lunches (sometimes including little notes like Don't get stuck in your peanut butter sandwich!), driving whatever I'd forgotten (my purse, my sweater, my homework, my permission slip) to school, bringing me to piano lessons and Johnny to guitar. My mother was the family concierge, making sure we all had what we needed.

She'd always say, "Let 'em know you're there." The woman who ran our household like a boss, but had neither the opportunity nor the self-confidence to let the world know she was there, wanted more for us.

Not that my mom and dad were helicopter parents—I was given plenty of freedom to roam and make mistakes. It was the '60s and '70s, when you could hop on your bike in the morning and not come home until dinner. (My dad would holler "Katieee!" on the front step, while Mr. McMullan had perfected a whistle that signaled my friend Janie to head inside.) But if there was any hint I was seriously veering off course, my mother would swoop in.

In tenth grade after school one day, I was making out with my boyfriend, Steve Elliott, in his basement. He went to another high school, was two years older, was the product of divorce, and his mother worked—all of which sounded a bit dicey to my parents.

Suddenly, we heard banging.

Steve and I untangled and sat up. He craned his neck and saw my mom's Keds through the window well. I quickly collected myself, ran upstairs, and opened the front door.

"Mom," I said, my face flushed, my hair a mess.

"Come with me," she ordered and threw my orange Schwinn Varsity bike into the back of the station wagon. I wanted to crawl under the vinyl seat. We didn't say a word the entire way home.

My mom was born in 1923, just three years after women won the right to vote, decades before we'd enter the workforce in real numbers.

Sometimes I wonder: What if little Elinor Hene had been told the sky was the limit? If she'd come along a generation later, what might she have been—a graphic artist? She loved to sketch and paint. A stockbroker? When the AIDS crisis hit, she bought shares of Trojan condoms. Head of operations at some big company? She certainly ran a tight ship. Who knows—maybe she wouldn't have changed a thing.


MY HOURS AT ABC were brutal. Going from the morning shift to afternoons to overnights totally screwed up my body clock. Driving down Canal Road after work one afternoon, I felt certain my life was over.

I'd been living at home. The Peter Max bedspreads I'd begged my mom for in junior high had been replaced by granny-friendly rayon quilts; the chartreuse walls had been repainted cream. As much as I enjoyed my mother's home cooking, I wanted to be on my own. Fortunately, one of Wendy's roommates was moving out, and she asked if I wanted the spot. What could be better than rooming with Wendy, her friend Margaret, who worked on Capitol Hill, and Leslie, who had a golden retriever named Amy?

They lived in a townhouse on Dent Place across the street from the fire station, a 15-minute drive from my parents and just a few blocks from the heart of Georgetown. On weekends we'd grab turkey and Brie on baguettes from the French Market or head to Au Pied de Cochon (the Pig's Foot—yum) for omelets and fries and to flirt with the sexy French waiters. At some point, Wendy started dating Sam Donaldson (back when no one batted an eye at workplace relationships). One day he showed up at our door in a white shirt, white pants, white belt, and white shoes. I turned around and yelled, "Hey, Wendy, the Man from Glad is here!"

I was a total slob and Wendy was meticulous—she almost had a coronary one day when I balanced a mug of coffee on her crisp white duvet. I'd sometimes rifle through her sweaters, disrupting her elaborate system, everything organized by color and pattern. Knowing the Oscar/Felix thing might not be working for Wendy, my mom drove over to Dent Place one day and pleaded with her not to kick me out. Wendy told her not to worry.


THERE WERE A handful of female correspondents at ABC, and I studied their every move: Bettina Gregory, a Rosalind Russell–style toughie; motherly Ann Compton, who covered the White House with Sam and hired me to babysit her kids when I was looking to supplement my $7,000 salary; tall, striking, platinum-blond Cassie Mackin, who practically glided through the newsroom on her cool confidence.

I was just as fascinated by the male reporters: Rising stars Charlie Gibson and Brit Hume calling in on the "hotline" (a literal red phone with a special ring) from Capitol Hill with big scoops; Lou Cioffi, a foreign correspondent who got so miffed when I asked if he was a cameraman (honest mistake—at the time, he was wearing a Members Only jacket and xeroxing his expense report). Don Farmer was a 20/20 correspondent, married to Chris Curle, a gorgeous and talented local anchor at the ABC affiliate WJLA. During one high school summer, I had taken a journalism class that included a field trip to the station. I remember walking by Chris Curle's desk and seeing, alongside legal pads and pens, hot rollers and a Clairol makeup mirror. Wow, I thought. So glamorous.

One afternoon, I snuck upstairs and poked my head into Don's office. "I have some story ideas for 20/20 I'd love to show you," I said. He smiled encouragingly, knowing the chutzpah that required, and invited me in.

I read him the six ideas I had typed out, including one about a treatment center for gambling addicts in Pikesville, Maryland. Don listened and nodded, then thanked me. I left him the list and headed back to the newsroom.

I don't know if he ever actually used any of my ideas. But I do know that getting on Don Farmer's radar changed my life.



  • Going There is jam-packed with honesty, humor, and helpful advice for every woman blazing her own path. I admired Katie Couric before, but after reading Going There, I absolutely love her. When you read about the real Katie in these pages, you will too.”—Glennon Doyle, author of the #1 bestseller Untamed and host of the We Can Do Hard Things podcast
  • “Couric's actual living voice—one of the most human and wise of our times—is on every single line of this memoir, but "memoir" is reductive. This is memoir as time capsule, memoir as therapy session, memoir as masterpiece. Memoir as Necessity. It is aggressively, gorgeously human,  the very book we needed for this time. You will feel thankful, as though Katie Couric has been an angel on your shoulder, she's been with you this whole time, and now, thank God, she's ready to show you the other side.”—Lisa Taddeo, bestselling author of Three Women
  • “The secret to Katie Couric’s success is that there are no secrets. While the dogged determination she has called upon her whole life is  an invaluable asset, there are other ingredients in Katie’s not-so-secret sauce: humor, concern, sincerity, steadfastness, and devotion to her daughters, family, and friends. If Katie is "going there," no matter where “there” is, we’re along for the ride.”—Michael J. Fox, bestselling author of No Time Like the Future
  • “The woman we’ve counted on for decades to tell the most important stories of our time is finally telling her own. And nothing is off the record. This no-holds-barred account of Katie’s rise to TV fame—while juggling motherhood, crushing loss, and brushes with failure—delivers on its title. She writes with a raw honesty and been-there-lived-that sensibility that every woman on the rise will benefit from. Brimming with heart and sheer grit, it’s a masterclass in resilience and overcoming every obstacle on the way to success.”—Elaine Welteroth, bestselling author and award-winning journalist
  • "Fast-paced and riveting, Going There is an intimate memoir that chronicles the once magical world of TV news.  Every young woman should read this book to understand what ambition really feels like and the work it takes to fulfill it."—Tina Brown
  • Funny, sincere, heartbreaking — Couric chronicles her upbringing, career in TV journalism, cutthroat pressures and boys club hazing of the biz, the downfall of her co-anchor Matt Lauer, as well as the death of her husband at the young age of 42 and finding love again. Looking for a new BFF? You’ll find one here.
     —Lesley Kennedy, CNN
  • “Longtime ‘Today’ co-anchor Couric, once known as ‘America’s Sweetheart,’ shows that she’s really ‘America’s Role Model’ in a frank, funny memoir about her journey from Arlington, Va., high school cheerleader to a leading voice for cancer research as well as first-rank investigative journalist. Some superstar books can be skipped; this one shouldn’t be.”—Bethanne Patrick, The Washington Post
  • "The book is a lot of things: a very juicy autobiography, full of sex and gossip and bizarre celebrity encounters and familial revelation, as well as an account of the rampant misogyny within the industry in which Couric rose. Like Couric herself, it is surprisingly spiky and weird and seemingly committed to absolute chaos. It is the work of someone who, if not ready to fully analyze her place in often-abusive hierarchies, is curious enough about those hierarchies to lay out her experiences in ways that are not flattering, either to the news business or to herself...A celebrity tell-all that by its nature should have been interesting only to Couric’s longtime fans [but] turns out to be a startling and capacious historic document."—Rebecca Traister, NYMag (The Cut)
  • “I zipped through this memoir, only slowing down for some cleverly interspersed news clips and the occasional outburst of singing. I found Couric’s sensitive  descriptions of her bouts with family loss thoughtful and moving; her honest forthrightness about her sometimes lopsided work experiences gripping and delicious.”Marshall Heyman, Vulture (NYMag)
  • “There is no relentless people-pleasing in her fearlessly frank memoir, a wildly entertaining and often emotional ride through the volatile media landscape of the last 40 years in which no subject is off limits…she was in a class of her own…Being described as “perky” and “America’s Sweetheart” overshadowed her real accomplishments as a journalist capable of hard-hitting interviews. It also made her a favorite target for the tabloids and the long lenses of paparazzi. This much hasn’t changed: Couric has been pilloried in the press over early leaks of “Going There,” …understandable she would want to protect her turf; every woman who made a strong impression at NBC News was touted by the press as a replacement…Despite early reports, Couric doesn’t really go over the top in her critiques of former colleagues at NBC. The brunt of her barbs are aimed at CBS. If you’re a producer or executive who worked with her there and don’t see your name in the index of “Going There,” consider yourself extremely fortunate…Couric also provides a deftly written tick-tock on her reaction to the downfall of her longtime co-anchor Matt Lauer. It’s compassionate without excusing his behavior, to which she was admittedly oblivious when she worked with him. But civilians who read “Going There” will be most transfixed by Couric’s raw and unvarnished account of losing her first husband, attorney Jay Monahan, to colon cancer at the age of 42.”
     —Stephen Battaglio, Los Angeles Times

On Sale
Oct 26, 2021
Page Count
528 pages

Katie Couric

About the Author

Katie Couric (@katiecouric) is an award-winning journalist, New York Times bestselling author and a​ co-​founder of Stand ​Up To Cancer (SU2C). Since its launch in 2008, Stand Up To Cancer has raised more than $600 million to support cutting-edge collaborative science and its research has contributed to six new FDA approved therapies.  

In 2017, she founded Katie Couric Media (KCM), which has developed a number of media projects, including a daily newsletter, a podcast, digital video series and several documentaries.  KCM works with purpose driven brands to create premium content that addresses important social issues like gender equality, environmental sustainability and mental health.  

Previous documentaries produced by KCM include: ​America Inside Out with Katie Couric​, a six-part series for National Geographic;​ Gender Revolution: A Journey with Katie Couric​, for National Geographic; ​Under the Gun​, which aired on EPIX; and ​Fed Up​, available on iTunes, Amazon and YouTube. Couric was also the executive producer of ​Unbelievable​ on Netflix and is developing other scripted projects. 

Couric was the first woman to solo anchor a network evening newscast, serving as anchor and managing editor of the ​CBS Evening News​ from 2006 to 2011 following 15-years as co-anchor of NBC’s ​Today​ show. She also hosted a syndicated show and served as the Yahoo Global News Anchor until 2017.

She has won a duPont-Columbia, a Peabody, two Edward R. Murrows, a Walter Cronkite Award, and multiple Emmys.  She was twice named one of Time magazine’s 100 most influential people and was a Glamour Magazine woman of the year three times.  She has also received numerous awards for her cancer advocacy work; honored by both the Harvard and Columbia schools of public health, the American Cancer Society and The American Association of Cancer Researchers.  

In addition to writing ​The Best Advice I Ever Got: Lessons from Extraordinary Lives, Couric is the author of two books for children.  

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