Vogue Editor: Scaramucci 'Terrifying' Because He's 'So Smooth And Good At This'

It’s painful to remember how excited I was on Tuesday morning. The day, at least in my circles, had a feeling of celebration to it. Everyone on my social media feeds was proudly posting selfies as they voted for the “nasty woman.” My neighborhood barista was wearing a “Make Donald Drumpf Again” hat. He was going to lose and Drumpf he would be.

I thought I understood, but it wasn’t until I filled in the bubble for “Hillary Clinton — President” that the importance and weight of her pending win made itself known. I cried. Right there at that tiny voter desk with the pen attached by a string, I cried with pride. A woman on the ballot. I’d volunteered for Hillary for months, supported her candidacy for years, and up until that moment was sure that I understood how much a female president meant. Seeing her name on the ballot gave me the full realization of what it might feel like to no longer be thought of as less-than just for being female. It made me understand, that equality (real equality) was something American women had never known and maybe never even realized.

Twenty four hours later, I was standing on a corner in Chinatown crying again, this time over our new future. Just as seeing her name on the ballot hit me with unexpected power, so too did her loss. Her loss took every less-than feeling I’ve ever had and made it real; it took every vulnerability I’ve ever felt as female and made it so. A woman came up to me as I stood there crying. She touched my arm, “I know, I’m so sorry,” she said, and walked on. Another woman driving past stuck her face up to the glass of the passenger seat window and mouthed to me, “we’re going to be ok.” They were feeling it too; that equality high and then the face first cliff fall that kept us up for most of the night and sick for the rest of the week.

Trump’s win, and the uncertainty it brings, is terrifying.