I campaigned hard for Elizabeth Warren. Don’t tell me to ‘just get over’ my grief now she’s dropped out the race

I have cried and cried. And I have no regrets, because what we did mattered. Only those of us who did the work get to set the timeline for how long we stay sad

Warren addresses supporters at a Detroit rally on Tuesday (Reuters)

Elizabeth Warren has suspended her campaign and her ardent supporters are grieving. In addition to the deep grief that we’re feeling, we’re also despondent over the sexism that guided swaths of voters — even though they loved her, found her brilliant, the most qualified, the most able — to cast their chips in on someone else instead, in the name of “electability”.

Just hours after Super Tuesday’s results it started: “OK,” the narrative went, “I was all in for Warren, too, but now it’s time to get in line behind [candidate of their choice]. No more wallowing.” And for those of us who spent countless hours volunteering for Warren’s campaign, such comments — doled out as we had just stopped crying for the fourth time that day — felt like yet another punch in the gut.

When you’ve volunteered for a campaign and your candidate doesn’t win, it’s more than just a bummer. It’s a complete devastation. The passion that it takes to invest in a candidate is like a drug — even though some voters text you back and call you a “c***” and tell you to drink bleach, you keep coming back for more. Because in between those hits are the undecided voters who turn, the ones who come back days later to thank you after they cast their vote, the ones that say, “I swear to Jesus if I have to vote for one more old white guy” and you both laugh and say, “LFG” and feel the energy of the fight.

In the aftermath of a loss, there is no pontificating about next time, no “ah well, I guess it’s just not her year” that gets you through. On Super Tuesday, I text-banked for Warren from late afternoon until the polls closed in California. When I finished my last batch and looked up the election results that were rolling in, I stumbled to bed broken-hearted and perplexed. How was this happening? Why does this always happen to the candidates I support, I thought, as I tugged the sheets up to my chin.

For me, it started in 2016. My teenager and I spent the months leading up to that election volunteering for a local candidate. On election day, we spent the entire day canvassing and holding signs on street corners in the cold and rain, our fingers turning bright red and numb. That night, we walked into the county Democratic watch party in our fancy clothes, filled with optimism. I was thrilled to share that night with my son, to watch our hard work pay off, to experience the historic moment where the first woman would win the presidency.

Of course that’s not how it played out. That night we were crushed and it was brutal. Our local candidate’s loss was, of course, compounded by the disbelief and fear that accompanied Trump’s win, and it was difficult to parse apart which feelings belonged where. We walked to the car in stunned silence, and when the car wouldn’t start on the freezing cold street all I could do was slump my head against the window and sob. My son reached over and said, “It’s OK, Mom. It’s going to be OK.”

Campaigning feels like being part of democracy; it feels like a way to make a difference. But, what do you do when those efforts aren’t enough?

The morning after Super Tuesday, I woke up and dragged myself through my routine. I made breakfast and lunches. I got the kids off to school. And on my way home, I cried. My partner met me in the living room with an origami flower, he pulled me in and let me sob then listened as I talked in an angry voice for half an hour, then held me as I cried some more.

Candidate grief is complicated. Believing like mad in someone and pouring your heart into helping their campaign and then not succeeding is emotionally and physically draining. It’s OK to need time to feel those feelings. It’s OK to sit in them for a minute, for days, and even longer.

If you volunteered for Elizabeth Warren and you’re feeling overwhelmed right now, know that the deep disappointment is going to hurt and it’s normal. Most people won’t understand, so surround yourself with the ones that do. Take a hot bath and cry. Go for a drive, take a hike in the woods. Sit in the team Slack channel and decompress with other volunteers. Say the things you need to say, congratulate each other on your hard work. Take a break from Twitter. Eat some chewy candy. Drink too much of your favorite drink. Have no regrets because what you did mattered. The work you did changed the conversation.

To everyone else, please keep in mind that the ones who did the work are the ones that set the timeline for how long we get to lick our wounds. Give us time to take some deep breaths before dusting ourselves off and jumping back in. We’re doing really hard work that, yes, many of us are hardwired to do, but that kind of investment means that we get knocked down and bruised and it hurts like hell.

Be patient with us. Be extra kind. And don’t worry — we’ll get back up. We always do.