In 1975, at 19 years old, I walked away from Wayne State University—and from my parents’ dreams for me—and boarded a flight to New York City. In May 2021, at age 65, I walked across a graduation stage at Lakeland University in Plymouth, Wisconsin, and finally received my bachelor’s degree in Communication.

As I waited in line for my name to be called, my eyes filled with tears. I was no longer that stubborn teenager from Eureka Drive in Warren, Michigan, arguing in the family kitchen about my future. Yet in my heart, I could still hear my parents insisting I finish college before doing anything else. I could still see my younger self insisting that my path wasn’t toward engineering or dentistry, but toward stories, art, and light.

Back then, I believed the future could be found in New York City. I clung to the words of Tony Zanetta, David Bowie’s tour manager, who told me after a Detroit concert, “You belong in New York.” That was all the permission I needed. I kept my secret, wrote a goodbye note, and left home one quiet morning when no one was there to stop me.

I arrived in Manhattan with nothing but $50, a few bags of clothes, and a restless heart. I stayed at the Chelsea Hotel, the legendary refuge for dreamers and misfits, until my money ran out. A job listing in The New York Times led me to a temporary assignment at CBS News, and that assignment changed everything. Two producers—Judy Crichton and George Crile—saw potential in me that I couldn’t yet see in myself. They took me under their wing and sparked a career that would span five decades in television.

From producing at Nickelodeon and ABC News to winning an Emmy for my work at WNBC’s Live at Five, I built a life I never could have imagined when I ran away at 19. When I sent that first Emmy home, my parents proudly displayed it in their living room until the end of their days. It touched me deeply that, even though they didn’t approve of my choices back then, they found pride in what I became.

In later years, life took me from Hollywood—where I worked with Cher and Joan Rivers—to Silicon Valley, to public broadcasting. I even found myself sitting before a congressional subcommittee in Washington, D.C., advocating for the mission of public television—the very medium through which my immigrant family had learned to speak English. The irony never escaped me.

Through it all, one truth lingered quietly in the background: I had never finished college. For decades, that fact didn’t define me—but it never disappeared either. Encouraged by my longtime mentor, Dr. Vicki Martin, and supported unconditionally by my husband Michael, I decided to go back. First came online classes at Milwaukee Area Technical College, and then, in 2019, I began the journey to a bachelor’s degree at Lakeland University.

Nights and weekends blurred into study sessions, papers, and online discussions. Only Michael and Dr. Martin knew what I was working toward. When my final papers were turned in—and the email arrived confirming I had met all requirements—the emotion hit harder than I ever expected.

At graduation, my walking companion turned out to be Amy, an online classmate from several of my final courses. We recognized each other immediately, laughed, and held back tears as we adjusted our caps. Moments later, the processional began.

As I stepped onto that stage, I thought of Michael cheering in the audience, of Dr. Martin’s faith in me, and most of all, of my parents, Olga and Wolodymyr. They weren’t there in person, but I felt them with me—watching from someplace better, smiling as their son finally fulfilled a promise made long ago.

That walk across the stage wasn’t just the completion of a degree—it was the closing of a circle that began 46 years earlier in a Detroit kitchen. It was a moment that connected all the versions of me: the runaway dreamer, the television producer, the husband, and now, at last, the college graduate.