If you’ve ever thought, “Hey, being on the radio sounds kind of fun,” you’re not wrong. It is fun. It’s also chaotic, unpredictable, humbling, and—on the wrong side of 5 a.m.—a little cruel.
After years of hosting the morning show, here’s what I’ve learned. You can take it as wisdom, a warning, or a free pass to hit snooze guilt-free.
1. Your voice is never the problem—until it is.
You can survive on caffeine and hope, but not without a voice. The first time you wake up with no sound coming out, it’ll feel like a bad dream. You’ll panic-text your coworkers at 5:07 a.m., sip lukewarm tea like it’s medicine, and whisper your way through The 5 O’Clock Funnies, The Good News, Showbiz Headlines, News from Nashville, and Dial-a-Deal. Pro tip: always have a backup plan. Preferably named Rob.
2. People are listening more closely than you think.
You’ll mispronounce a town name once and never live it down. You’ll flub a birthday shoutout and get three phone calls about it. But when you do get it right—when you remember a kid’s name, mention someone’s late uncle, or say something kind on a rough day—it sticks. Radio may feel like talking into the void, but the void is full of people in cars, trucks, and kitchens, paying attention.
3. Timing is everything.
You’ll never forget the thrill of hitting the post perfectly—talking over a song’s intro and wrapping up right as the vocals kick in. It’s a small, silly kind of magic. And it only happens when you’re focused, fast, and a little bit lucky. Life lesson: know when to stop talking.
4. Mornings are a different kind of sacred.
You catch the world before it’s fully awake. You talk to people while they’re packing lunches, brushing their teeth, and heading into work they may or may not love. That’s a responsibility, and a weird kind of honor. You become part of their routine—and they become part of yours.
5. Not every joke will land. Do it anyway.
Some mornings are full of energy. Others are full of fog. You’ll try a pun that dies a quiet death. You’ll crack yourself up and hear only silence in return. But that one guy who calls in just to say, “Hey, that made me laugh”—he makes it worth it.
6. Nobody sees the sweat.
The show sounds casual and breezy, like you’re just chatting with a friend. But behind the scenes, you’re juggling clocks, sponsors, schedules, phone lines, and playlists while trying to remember what day it is. It’s equal parts performance, puzzle, and plate-spinning. If it sounds easy, that’s the goal.
7. Community isn’t a buzzword. It’s the whole job.
We announce the spaghetti dinners, the funeral times, the lost dogs, the school closings. We know who just had a baby and who just got bad news. We’re not just filling time—we’re filling in the spaces between people. And in a small town, that matters more than you realize.
So no, you don’t have to host a morning show. But if you ever do, you’ll learn what I did: it’s not just about being on the radio. It’s about showing up, staying human, and making a little noise before the world wakes up.
And yeah… it’s still fun. Even at 5:00.