He Called Me Out, Then Called Me In

A story of how Mr. Weiner Left a Mark on the world - and on me

November 28th, 2018 at the Roosevelt Hotel, New York City

I first met Mark in 2013, though “met” might be too generous of a word for what initially happened. At the time, I was running a small company called Unison out of Birmingham, Michigan. We were scrappy, underfunded, and doing our best to punch above our weight in the earned media measurement space. Naturally, I was looking for talent. Desperately. And in the naivety of youth, I did what any young entrepreneur might do—I started cold messaging employees at Prime Research, a well-established player with a massive presence in Ann Arbor. Mark was their CEO.

Eventually, one of my messages got his attention, and not in the way I had hoped. He sent me a direct note. It was both disapproving and gracious. He told me, in no uncertain terms, that he didn’t appreciate my recruitment tactics. But then he said something I didn’t expect—he admired the hustle. He suggested we grab coffee.

That awkward exchange turned into a meeting. That meeting turned into a mentorship. And that mentorship became an 11-year friendship that shaped my life in more ways than I can count.

Our first long conversation was at Vinology in Ann Arbor. We sat for hours, well past the point of finishing our drinks, talking about how media had changed. Mark had this incredible sense of history. He could trace the arc of public relations from press clippings and fax machines all the way to real-time media intelligence platforms, and still speak about it with childlike curiosity. He didn’t romanticize the past. He just deeply understood how things worked—and why they changed.

Later, we'd meet in New York at Jean-Georges, or take long walks from Midtown to Flatiron. He’d tell me stories about his early days at The New York Times, and what it felt like to see the world turn digital. On those walks, we often joked about New Jersey, the place we both called home originally. How it had changed. How some things, in both New Jersey and media, never quite did.

Mark had this way of making you feel like you were the most important person in the world, even when you knew he had five board meetings, three speaking gigs, and a plane to catch. He was generous with his time in a way that felt almost implausible. And he was humble to the point that you’d forget he had shaped an entire industry.

I remember sitting in the audience during his Institute for Public Relations Lifetime Achievement Award speech. It wasn’t the kind of self-congratulatory address you’d expect at those events. He talked about ethics. About doing things right even when they’re inconvenient. He spoke about people—colleagues, clients, competitors—as if they were family. And when he mentioned his actual family—Braden, Cameron, Graham—you could see the pride well up in his eyes.

Over the years, we talked about everything. How to build a software business in an industry that still ran on relationships. How to work with German companies and learn their tempo and precision. How to build culture that doesn’t just inspire employees, but lasts long after you’ve left the room. He had this phrase, "a mindset of excellence," and he meant it in the deepest sense—not just about output, but about character.

He also talked a lot about health. It wasn’t theoretical for him. Mark survived cancer for nearly two decades, and he didn’t just survive—he kept living. He kept traveling, mentoring, walking, reflecting. He didn’t shy away from talking about his health struggles. In fact, he used them to ground conversations. To remind you that no ambition is worth sacrificing your wellbeing, or your family.

What struck me most about Mark wasn’t just his knowledge or his influence, though both were considerable. It was how deeply he believed in people. He remembered birthdays. He asked about your parents. He gave advice that was often uncomfortable because it was honest. And even when he didn’t agree with you, you felt heard. That’s rare. That’s leadership.

Mark passed away in December 2023, and there’s not a week that’s gone by since that I haven’t thought about something he said or taught me. The world of PR measurement may never have another Mark Weiner. But more importantly, neither will the rest of us.

He left a mark. On an industry. On a generation. On me.

Rest well, my friend.

But of course, that’s just the beginning of the story.

Mark’s career was extraordinary, not just in its reach, but in its depth. He wasn’t just the CEO of Prime Research. Before that, he held leadership roles at Copernicus, where he helped bridge marketing science and business strategy in ways that were far ahead of their time. At Medialink, he helped guide the company to a successful IPO—an incredible accomplishment given how few PR-related businesses had ever made it that far. He later joined Cision, then Cognito, and most recently served as Chief Insights Officer at PublicRelay. He never stopped shaping the evolution of the industry, even as it tried to define itself in real-time.

What always amazed me was his ability to move between boardroom strategy and classroom generosity. He authored two seminal books—Unleashing the Power of PR and PR Technology, Data, and Insights—both of which became category bestsellers. These weren’t vanity projects. They were widely used in top-tier programs at Johns Hopkins, NYU, UNC, and the University of Maryland. I’ve had people quote Mark’s work back to me without realizing that he was the one who wrote it.

He loved writing. Truly. He didn’t just view it as a form of expression, but as a form of responsibility. He encouraged me constantly to write more. To shape what I’d learned into something others could use. “Writing isn’t just communicating,” he once told me. “It’s clarifying—for others and for yourself.”

And then there were the talks. Mark spoke all over the world—Peru, Sweden, Greece, Slovenia, Australia, the UK. IPR events. Global PR summits. He’d walk on stage without notes, settle into a calm and focused energy, and absolutely hold the room. He had this innate ability to balance confidence with humility, data with warmth. You’d leave a session with pages of notes and a sense that you had just witnessed something important.

But my favorite memories are still the simplest ones. Conversations at Vinology, where he would drop wisdom in the most offhand ways. I once asked him how to handle a client who was resistant to change. He took a slow sip of his drink, looked at me, and said, “Don’t tell them they’re wrong. Show them what’s right.” That one sentence saved me a thousand hours in boardrooms.

He loved his family fiercely. He talked about Braden and the boys (Cameron and Graham) constantly—not just as anecdotes, but as anchors. As sources of insight and joy. His stories about parenting were filled with humility and humor. “You learn more from your kids than they ever learn from you,” he told me once. “If you’re paying attention.”

Mark paid attention. To people. To language. To trends. To things that most of us overlook in the rush of daily life. He was that rare kind of mentor who didn’t just advise you. He helped you become someone worth advising.

I miss him more than I can explain.

But I hear his voice every time I slow down. Every time I write something and delete the first paragraph because it wasn’t honest enough. Every time I ask myself if I’m building something that will last—and doing it in a way that I can be proud of.

Mark didn’t need to raise his voice to change a room. He just needed to be in it.

And for a while, I was lucky enough to be in one with him.