I woke up on Election Day like a bride: rosy, thrilled, a little controlling about just how MY perfect day would be spent. After working on the Clinton campaign for eighteen months, I was ready to celebrate, and sure that by nightfall I’d be knocking back glasses of champagne and creating a story to tell my unborn children. Maybe I’d even get close enough to Hillary Clinton to hug her, to whisper “Thank you.” I had dreamed about it every night for the last two weeks.

….also:

The three hours I spent at the Javits Center Tuesday night, surrounded by campaign staffers and fellow surrogates for Hillary Clinton, are blurred and spotty. At a certain point it became clear something had gone horribly wrong. Celebrants’ faces turned. The modeling had been incorrect. Watching the numbers in Florida, I touched my face and realized I was crying. “Can we please go home?” I said to my boyfriend. I could tell he was having trouble breathing, and I could feel my chin breaking into hives.

..and later:

By the time we’d made it over the bridge, a friend called. “It’s over,” she said. “I love you.” I was frozen. We stopped at the diner. No one was speaking as they ate, no one in the whole place.