Hillary Clinton: What Happened

I doubt that many people reading this will ever lose a presidential election. (Although maybe some have: hi Al, hi John, hi Mitt, hope you’re well.) But we all face loss at some point. We all face profound disappointment. Here’s what helped me during one of the lowest points in my life. Maybe it’ll help you too.

After that first day of laying low, I started reaching out to people. I answered a ton of emails; I returned phone calls. It hurt. There’s a reason people isolate themselves when they’re suffering. It can be painful to talk about it, painful to hear the concern in our friends’ voices. Plus, in my case, we were all suffering. Everyone was so upset—for me, for themselves, for America. Often, I ended up doing the comforting rather than being comforted. Still, it was good to connect. I knew isolation wasn’t healthy and that I’d need my friends now more than ever. I knew that putting off those conversations would only make them harder to have later on. And I badly wanted to thank everyone who had helped my campaign and make sure they were holding up okay under these circumstances.

What helped most was when someone said, “This has made me even more committed to the fight.” “I’m stepping up my donations.” “I’ve already started volunteering.” “I’m posting more on Facebook; I won’t stay quiet anymore.” And best of all: “I’m thinking about running for office myself.”

A young woman named Hannah, one of my field organizers in Wisconsin, sent me this note a few days after my loss:

The past two days have been very difficult. But when I think about how I felt on Tuesday morning, when I cried for an hour because I thought we were about to elect our first woman President, I know we cannot give up. Even though these last days have been a different kind of crying, your poise and grace have inspired me to stay strong. I do know that even though we have all been knocked down by this, we will rise. And through the next few years, we will be stronger together and keep fighting for what is right. From one nasty woman to another, thank you.

Since I spent a lot of time worrying that my loss would permanently discourage the young people who worked for my campaign, learning that my defeat hadn’t defeated them was a huge relief. It also roused me. If they could keep going, so could I. And maybe if I showed that I wasn’t giving up, other people would take heart and keep fighting, too.

It was especially important to me that all the people who worked on my campaign knew how grateful and proud I was of them. They’d sacrificed a lot over the past two years, in some cases putting personal lives on hold, moving across the country, and working long hours for not that much money. They never stopped believing in me, each other, and the vision of the country we were working so hard to advance. Now many of them didn’t know where their next paycheck would come from.

I did two things right away. First, I decided to write and sign letters to all 4,400 members of my campaign staff. Thankfully, Rob Russo, who has been managing my correspondence for years, agreed to oversee the whole project. I also made sure we were able to pay everyone through November 22 and provide health insurance through the end of the year.

On the Friday after the election, we threw a party at a Brooklyn hotel near our headquarters. Under the circumstances, it was surprisingly great. There was a fantastic band—some of the same musicians who played at Chelsea and Marc’s wedding in 2010—and the dance floor was packed. It felt a little like an Irish wake: celebration amid the sadness. Let it never be said that the Hillary for America staff didn’t stick together when it counted. To help matters, there was an open bar.

After everyone worked up a sweat, I took the microphone to say thank you. Everyone screamed “Thank you !” right back at me. Really, I couldn’t have asked for a more good-natured, hardworking team. I told them how important it was that they not let this defeat discourage them from public service or from throwing themselves into future campaigns with as much heart and commitment as they had given to mine. I reminded them about the losing campaigns I’d worked on in my twenties, including Gene McCarthy in the 1968 Democratic primaries and George McGovern in 1972—and the beatings Democrats took until everything changed in ’92. We had stuck it out. I was counting on them to keep going too.

I also said that I had brought a small gift for them. A women’s advocacy group called UltraViolet had sent 1,200 red roses to my house earlier that day, and I had them packed up and brought them to the party. They lay in heaps near the exits. “Please take a few as you head home tonight,” I told everyone. “Think about the hope they represent and the love and gratitude that so many people around the country feel for all of you.”

It was an echo of an earlier moment. My team had spent Wednesday and Thursday packing up our campaign offices in Brooklyn, fueled by pizzas sent by well-wishers from all over the country. Our neighbors in the building had taped signs on the elevator doors that read, “Thank You for What You Did.” As staffers carried their last boxes out of headquarters, they were greeted by a crowd of children and their parents. The kids had covered the sidewalk in chalk messages: “Girl Power!” “Stronger Together!” “Love Trumps Hate!” “Please Don’t Give Up!” When bedraggled members of our team filed out for the last time, the children handed them flowers. One last act of kindness from a borough that had been good to us again and again.

Over the next few weeks, I dropped any pretense of good cheer. I was so upset and worried for the country. I knew the proper and respectable thing to do was to keep quiet and take it all with grace, but inside I was fuming. The commentator Peter Daou, who worked on my 2008 campaign, captured my feelings when he tweeted, “If Trump had won by 3 million votes, lost electoral college by 80K, and Russia had hacked RNC, Republicans would have shut down America .” Nonetheless, I didn’t go public with my feelings. I let them out in private. When I heard that Donald Trump settled a fraud suit against his Trump University for $25 million, I yelled at the television. When I read the news that he filled his team with Wall Street bankers after relentlessly accusing me of being their stooge, I nearly threw the remote control at the wall. And when I heard he installed Steve Bannon, a leading promoter of the “Alt-Right,” which many have described as including white nationalists, as his chief strategist in the White House, it felt like a new low in a long line of lows.

The White House is sacred ground. Franklin D. Roosevelt hung a plaque over the fireplace in the State Dining Room inscribed with a line from a letter that John Adams sent to his wife on his second night living in the newly built White House: “I pray heaven to bestow the best of blessings on this house and all that shall hereafter inhabit it. May none but honest and wise men ever rule under this roof.” I hope Adams would have been okay with a wise woman. I can’t imagine what he would say if he could see who was walking those halls.

Letters started pouring in from people across the country, many so poignant that after reading a few, I had to put them away and go for a walk. A third-year law student from Massachusetts named Rauvin wrote about how she imagined that she and her female friends and classmates would look back on this time:

On Nov. 8, 2016, we felt a sense of devastation, powerlessness, and disappointment that we had never felt before. So we cried. And then we squared our shoulders, picked each other up, and got to work. We moved onward and onward, keeping in mind that we would never, ever allow ourselves to feel again as we did that day. And though our anger and disappointment fueled us, it did not consume us, make us cynical or cruel. It made us strong. And eventually, eventually one of us will crash through that highest, hardest glass ceiling. And it will be because of our hard work, determination, and resilience. But it will also be because of you. Just you wait.