Jessica Tarlov disagrees for a living. On live television and on her podcast, she spars with people who see the world very differently than she does, and she does it without torching the relationship. It’s the thesis of her book, I Disagree: that you can hold your ground and still hold on to people.
But ask her where that skill gets its hardest workout, and the answer isn’t the studio.
“I often joke that no political disagreement is as tough to handle as a negotiation with a toddler, and I stand by that,” she says. “It’s probably the emotional investment that makes it so tenuous!”
The mechanics, she insists, are the same whether the person across from you is a political opponent or a small child refusing shoes. “The capacity to be interrupted and pushed in different directions and still find your way back to your original point is the same skill set no matter who you’re dialoguing with. You have to build the capacity to zig and zag without losing sight of the end goal.”
The math of a working mother
Tarlov is mom to two daughters, and the collision between live television, a podcast, and two little ones is constant. She doesn’t pretend otherwise.
“I’m not the first working mom to say that it never feels like I’m doing enough for my girls,” she says, “and my older one is now at the age where she’ll actually call me out on having to be at work, which feels like heartbreak every time.”
Her mornings are flexible enough for drop-offs and the occasional mystery reader session at school. But she is candid about the choices on the other side of the ledger. “I’d be lying if I said that I haven’t chosen work or a professional opportunity when I know it’s really meaningful.”
Those decisions don’t get made alone. She talks them through with her husband and, often, her mother, who lives nearby. “If she can stand in for me, I love knowing that she’s building a special relationship with my kids to make up for my absence.”
What she won’t offer is a tidy promise that it all works out. “Will I regret some of my choices? I hope not! But know that operating at a high level professionally and as a parent means there could very well be some regret down the road.”
It’s a rare admission in a genre that usually ends with a bow on it, and it’s exactly the kind of honesty her book is built on.
Burnout among younger working mothers comes up in the book with real candor. What is this generation of moms being sold that simply isn’t true?
That our children would rather we be there all the time. In the moment? Sure. But the traditions and games you can build around them interfacing with your work are really valuable in and of themselves. Like, each of my daughters removes one of my fake eyelashes when I get home from work. It’s our little ritual. It makes my job seem fun to them, and the time when we’re reunited even better.
Chronic pregnancy anxiety is something so many women carry in silence. What made putting it on the page feel worth the exposure?
That there are still good stories out there. Ones where you can get promoted while heavily pregnant. Where you can discuss your feelings of discomfort and vulnerability openly and build important connections as a consequence. That our femininity is a superpower, and owning it looks really good to the outside world. Inspiring, even!
An arranged marriage, courtesy of lockdown
The story of how Tarlov’s family began sounds like a rom-com pitch, and she tells it with a comic’s timing.
She and her husband, Brian, met in an elevator shortly before COVID. They were next-door neighbors who had never actually met. A few weeks later, the world locked down, and they were locked down together.
“We never actually ‘dated,’” she says. “We never even really chose each other in the usual sense. An arranged marriage by the Wuhan lab is what we tell people.”
She’s disarmingly frank about what might have happened otherwise. “If we’re being honest, we probably wouldn’t have ended up together if we hadn’t met under those circumstances. A few good dates? Yes. Marriage? Doubt it.”
Yet the strange start turned out to be good preparation. While other couples strained under the shift from a big life to four walls, Tarlov and Brian were building in the opposite direction. “All those nights stuck at home with babies? The usual for us! Not being able to travel as much or go on adventures? Been there! I genuinely feel like our COVID circumstances built us for the difficulties of having a young family.”
Grief, and the girl who sees her grandfather
Not every chapter arrived lightly. Tarlov lost her father to 9/11-related cancer when she was twenty weeks pregnant with her first daughter.
“It was one of the biggest mind fucks you can come up with,” she says. “In a lot of ways, my daughter saved me from completely falling apart because I had to stay healthy for her. The circle of life was playing out very personally in those months.”
In the Tarlov household, death isn’t a hushed subject. Both her father and her husband’s father are gone, and she has chosen to talk about hers openly: what he was like, how he got sick, that he died. Her older daughter now says she regularly “sees” him.
“I’m not sure if she knows that it’s just what I want to hear or it’s really happening,” Tarlov says, “though she has said some things that indicate he really does visit her!”
Whatever is happening, the openness has shaped her daughter in ways Tarlov can see. “It has definitely made her more empathetic. She’ll ask her friends about their grandparents and if they’re still here. And she’ll tell them how much I love my dad.”
What she hopes grows from it is bigger still. “I like to think that as a result of my openness with her, she’ll be the friend you can tell anything to and a spirit who will always be open to the impossible. I very much want to be the kind of mother that fosters that kind of sincerity.”
Weeping on live TV became a moment of authority rather than embarrassment. How did vulnerability come to feel like strength instead of a liability?
I’m not going to sit here and advise all of you to start crying regularly at work, but when you’ve spent years performing at a high level and have found a way to muscle through difficult topics and discussions, a show of emotion has even more impact. You aren’t someone who is governed by emotions more than data. You’re someone who picks your spots, and that strikes people. They can tell the difference and feel the connection to your experience even more deeply as a result.
The patience she’s still working on
For someone whose job is calm, sharp disagreement, Tarlov is refreshingly unguarded about where it spills over.
“I hate to say it, but I can be too impatient with my girls, and I think it’s a direct result of the type of back-and-forth I engage in at work,” she says. “It’s hard to leave that outside sometimes, and my older daughter has to tell me to ‘calm down,’ which feels like such an epic fail.”
She knows the mother she’d like to be: the one who can sit with letters and numbers for hours. “And I’m just not,” she says. So she makes up the difference another way. “I do the best that I can and supplement some attitudinal failures with a ton of physical affection. Even if I’m getting frustrated, at least they can feel just how much I want to hold them close.”
Should your children read I Disagree as adults one day, what lesson would mean the most if it landed?
I hope that when my daughters read I Disagree, they can feel how much they’re loved and respected most of all. That they are treated, much like my sister and I were growing up, as equal members of our tribe, with opinions that matter and shape how we do things. That treating people with respect and empathy makes you a positive force for good no matter what you end up doing for a living. And, by extension, if you do treat people well despite diverging views, you can build incredibly rich and special relationships anyway.
I want them to know how much more interesting and exciting life is when you know exactly who you are and surround yourself with people who know who they are, and yet you find a way to be meaningfully in one another’s lives.
