This is tough for me to write. For weeks my life (and my blog) has been nothing but campaign. My academics have slid, I have hardly seen my friends, and I don’t even remember what it’s like to get more than six hours of sleep a night. But I’ve loved every minute of it. I’ve loved walking around campus with purpose. I’ve loved looking critically at the way things run to see how they can run better. I’ve loved meeting new people, shaking hands, and discussing ideas. I’ve loved debating, I’ve loved strategizing, I’ve loved staying up until 2 am just to chalk the campus. I’ve hated seeing my face on posters, but that’s a different story.
To lose, after all of the above, is slightly heartbreaking. It’s hard to realize that although you tried everything you could think of, worked as hard as you possibly could, you still weren’t quite good enough. It’s hard to hear people say that you clearly wanted it the most. It’s hard to hear people say that anyway, you ran a good campaign. It’s hard to look at professors and friends and acquaintances and know that they’re wondering just how bad you feel. It’s hard to remember losing the student council presidency in eighth grade, and to think that maybe, just maybe, you’ve never been destined for this kind of leadership.
But then maybe you go out to Old Number One. You have a Fat Tire with the winning team and the other losing team. You talk about the crazy shit (sorry, Mom) that went down on all sides. You admire each others’ platforms. You toast liberally, feeling so very lucky to have run (and lost) against such stand-up guys. You realize that even though it can’t be you, it can still be great.
And then you walk home, watch the wind turbines spinning, blurry, in the distance. You think about the secretary position you’ll be applying for in the morning. And then the night expands again, bulging against the Morris limits. It’s a beautiful evening, you’re twenty-one, and you just lost a vice presidential race. But tomorrow, you’re certain, will be something different.
All the best,