She got me at the introductory video, before she ever set foot on stage. All those women, generations of us, races of us, ages of us; all those marches, and rallies, and speeches, and demonstrations. All that work, that hard, hard work, filled with fury and frustration, over all these many, many years. To get the vote. To get equal rights. To get to be whatever we dreamed of being.

Our history, as liberated women, is so short, but it feels so painfully long. And then Hillary appeared, making her way to take command of that podium, looking as joyful and comfortable as I have ever seen her, under that glittering glass ceiling in Brooklyn — cracking it wide open, claiming that nomination as the first woman to represent a major political party, so that we may say to our daughters: But of course you can run for president.

There have been times, during both of Hillary’s campaigns for the presidency, when I’ve felt as if I’ve been trapped in that familiar nightmare that haunts our collective unconscious. The one where you’re running and running and running, your heart pounding, your lungs exploding — and you are not moving.

That was the feeling when Hillary had to cede the race to Barack Obama: No matter how hard we tried, women were frozen in place. I wept in disappointment at her gracious withdrawal, but then, given a different gift of healing, wept with pride and pleasure at the inauguration of the country’s first African-American president. And yet. My inbox hasn’t been filling with those “can you believe — isn’t this thrilling?” notes I would have expected.