I am not with her. No.
I am not with her. But I am with the woman who waited 95 years to cast her vote for a female president.
I am with the woman who took her three young boys to stand in line on a historic Tuesday in November to visit Susan B. Anthony’s grave.
I am with the woman who winked at a fellow pantsuit-patriot when she came across her in the office elevator this Election Day.
And I am with the man who wore his wife’s pantsuit to the polls this morning. And the one who wore standard dress—polished off with a pair of high heels.
I am with the woman who voted because she feels mocked by a candidate or party—for her race, or country, or religion, or sexuality, or disability, or femininity, or ANYTHING.
I am even with the woman who won’t vote for HER at any cost—because the sanctity of her own beliefs. Yes, in some ways, she and I are just the same.
And of course, I am with the 30-year-old woman who waited for two hours in four-inch heels among a sea of camo-clad men in Johns Island, South Carolina to cast her first vote ever.
And I am absolutely with the woman who enjoyed e v e r y l a s t m i n u t e of that wait.
No, I am not with HER.
Because I am her.
I am the woman who is running for President of the United States.
Because she is every woman.
(Even if she is not your woman.)
And this moment belongs to all of us.