Behind the Forecast: Carol Kirkwood’s Hidden Heartache – The Smiling Weather Star’s Tearful Battle Exposed

In the glittering yet unforgiving world of morning television, where every smile is scripted and every forecast flawless, few figures embody unshakeable cheer like Carol Kirkwood. For nearly three decades, the Scottish meteorologist has been BBC Breakfast’s radiant beacon, delivering sun-drenched predictions with a warmth that rivals the Gulf Stream. But today, in a revelation that has left fans reeling and colleagues reaching for tissues, Kirkwood has lifted the veil on the storm raging beneath her perpetual grin. Insiders reveal the 63-year-old presenter was reduced to “puddles of tears” behind the scenes during one of her life’s darkest chapters – a grueling divorce that shattered her fairy-tale marriage and nearly broke her spirit. “She’s our ray of sunshine, but even suns eclipse,” one longtime BBC producer confided. As social media erupts in a tidal wave of support, the question lingers: How did this icon of positivity weather her private tempest?

The bombshell dropped mid-morning in the pages of Candis magazine’s October issue, where Kirkwood – in a candid interview that marks a rare departure from her guarded persona – peeled back layers of polished professionalism to expose raw vulnerability. It was 2008, she recounted, when cracks first spiderwebbed through her 18-year union with Scottish property developer Jimmy Kirkwood, the man she’d met as a teenager and wed in a whirlwind of youthful optimism. What began as a seemingly solid partnership – the couple sharing a sprawling home in Berkshire, jetting off to sun-kissed holidays, and building a life intertwined with her rising stardom – unraveled quietly, without the tabloid fireworks of public scandals. “It wasn’t dramatic, no screaming rows or slammed doors,” Kirkwood told interviewer Jane Thynne, her voice steady but eyes betraying the flicker of old pain. “Just a slow drift, like clouds parting without a storm. But God, it hurt.”

As the marriage dissolved into divorce proceedings, Kirkwood found herself adrift in a sea of legal documents and whispered negotiations, all while the nation tuned in each weekday for her five-minute segments from the Blue Peter Garden studio. The juxtaposition was excruciating: on camera, she was “Smiling Carol,” twirling through isobars with infectious enthusiasm, her tartan skirts swirling like Highland kilts. Off air? A private maelstrom. “I’d come off air, dash to the ladies’, have a good cry, then reapply my eye make-up before stepping back in front of the cameras,” she confessed. “I put my grief into a compartment, kept it separate from my work – otherwise, I’d have ended up in a puddle of tears on live telly.” Colleagues corroborate the heartbreak; one makeup artist, speaking anonymously to The Sun, recalled: “She’d slip into the green room, face crumpling like wet paper. We’d blot the mascara, spritz some setting spray, and send her out beaming. It was heartbreaking – this woman who lights up mornings was fighting to keep her own spark alive.”

Kirkwood’s tenure at the BBC, spanning 1997 to the present, has been a masterclass in resilience. Born Ailsa Hogg on September 29, 1962, in Morpeth, Northumberland, she traded accountancy drudgery for meteorological magic after a chance TV appearance on Pebble Mill at One. By 2001, she was a fixture on BBC Breakfast, her lilting Scottish brogue and no-nonsense forecasts earning her cult status. She’s weathered literal storms – from the 1987 Great Storm that launched her career to the Beast from the East blizzards of 2018 – but none rivaled the personal gale of 2008. “Work kept me going,” she admitted. “That routine, the structure – it was my anchor. But maintaining the public face while crumbling inside? It was exhausting.” The divorce finalized amicably, with no children to complicate the split (Kirkwood has often cited her career as her “baby”), yet the emotional toll lingered, manifesting in sleepless nights and a profound sense of loss. “I was 46, staring at half a life,” she reflected. “Who was I without him?”

From those ashes rose a phoenix of reinvention. Post-divorce, Kirkwood embraced singledom with gusto, authoring novels like the “Sunloungers” series – frothy romances that mirrored her own quest for joy – and competing on Strictly Come Dancing in 2015, where her waltz with Pasha Kovalev charmed 10 million viewers. It was in 2017, amid a hiking holiday in the Lake District, that fate intervened: a chance encounter with retired police officer Steve Randall, 62, at a hotel breakfast buffet. “I was happily single, finding myself after the wreckage,” she shared in the interview. “But Steve? He was kind, steady – a quiet strength.” Their courtship, a slow burn of countryside walks and shared suppers, culminated in a storybook wedding at Cliveden House in December 2023, rain-lashed by Storm Gerrit but undimmed by Kirkwood’s optimism. “We laughed through the downpour,” she quipped. “Fitting for a weather girl.” Today, the couple revels in domestic bliss – baking scones, tending a garden overrun with Highland cows (Kirkwood’s quirky obsession) – a far cry from the solitude of yesteryear.

Yet the Candis confession has ignited a firestorm of empathy online, transforming #CarolKirkwood into a trending beacon of solidarity. Fans, long smitten by her authenticity, flooded X (formerly Twitter) with heartfelt tributes: “Carol, you’ve forecasted my mornings for years – now let us shine for you. You’re stronger than any hurricane,” tweeted @WeatherWatcherUK, amassing 15,000 likes. Heart emojis cascaded like confetti; one viral thread, started by comedian Romesh Ranganathan, read: “Carol Kirkwood just broke my heart. That smile? Earned through storms we never saw. Sending all the virtual hugs. #SunshineCarol.” Even celebrities piled on: Naga Munchett, her BBC Breakfast co-host, posted a throwback clip of Kirkwood’s forecast, captioned: “To the woman who taught me resilience: Your clouds pass, but your light endures.” By midday, a GoFundMe for mental health support in broadcasting – inspired by her story – had raised £50,000, underscoring the ripple of her candor.

BBC insiders praise Kirkwood’s grit as emblematic of the Corporation’s unsung heroes. “She’s the glue,” said a senior executive. “Through scandals, strikes, even her own hip replacement in 2022 – she shows up, smiling.” Her recent brushes with adversity – a 2025 cycling mishap in Slough that left her knee “banged up” and anxious about roads – only amplify her humanity. “Life’s not all clear skies,” she told Candis. “But talking about the rain? That’s how you get the rainbow.”

As the sun dips over Broadcasting House, Kirkwood’s revelation serves as a poignant reminder: Icons bleed too. For a woman who’s mapped monsoons and mist, navigating personal fog was her fiercest forecast yet. Fans rally not out of pity, but profound respect – for the tears shed in silence, the makeup reapplied with resolve, and the unyielding dawn that follows every dusk. Carol Kirkwood isn’t just weather-wise; she’s life-proof. And in Britain’s cloudy climes, that’s the truest sunshine of all.