It took a while for my heart to catch up. How do you give up on a dream, especially one so big, one that you came so close to reaching? It wasn’t easy accepting that I would never serve as president. It started with keeping busy, trying new things, cultivating new dreams. President Joe Biden’s success in governing helped close the gap between my head and my heart. So did seeing Kamala Harris become the first woman vice president. She and I have had long talks about the challenges facing women at the highest levels of public life, and I admire how she’s persevered and become an important partner for the president.
Harris is chronically underestimated, as are so many women in politics. I was impressed by her record as attorney general in California, where she took on drug traffickers and predatory lenders, and as a U.S. Senator. Her sharp questioning of Trump’s odious Supreme Court nominees was particularly memorable. So it was no surprise that after those same justices helped overturn Roe v. Wade, Harris became the Biden administration’s most passionate and effective advocate for restoring women’s reproductive rights.
While it still pains me that I couldn’t break that highest, hardest glass ceiling, I’m proud that my two presidential campaigns paved the way for women like Harris, Kirsten Gillibrand, Amy Klobuchar, and Elizabeth Warren to run, and for Harris to serve as vice president. I still believe we will have a woman president one day. I hope it’s sooner than many expect.
There are other losses that pain me, too. I miss my parents, my brother Tony, dear friends and colleagues. I miss loved ones still here physically but lost in the past because of Alzheimer’s and dementia.
I miss a time when truth mattered. I miss fact-based debates about policies to solve problems and improve lives. I miss the clear separation of church and state, once sacrosanct, now breached by culture warriors and Christian nationalists. I miss elections where everyone respects the will of the people, without constant attacks by sore losers and wannabe dictators.
I don’t feel old. Yes, I have more aches and pains than I used to. I go to more funerals than I’d like. But I also read more novels and see more Broadway shows. Somehow, I’ve become a novelist myself—and a Broadway producer and a Hollywood filmmaker; I even took clown lessons with Chelsea at the Moulin Rouge in Paris, red nose and all. Never thought I’d ever do that!
More important, my curiosity about the world and the thrill I get from rolling up my sleeves and diving into new problems have not diminished with age; if anything, they’ve deepened. That’s why I relish speaking out against election deniers and democracy doubters and talking with guests on my podcast who challenge my thinking, inspire me to work harder, or just make me laugh. It’s why last year I went to the salt flats of Gujarat, to meet Indian women who harvest salt under a broiling sun, to learn how they’re coping with the extreme heat caused by climate change. It’s why I gladly respond to requests for help from people around the world, from Afghanistan to Arkansas.
Once, I wasted energy worrying what critics might say or how the media would respond; now I have an easier time brushing all that aside and just doing what feels right and important. Time and so many battles won and lost have given me a thicker skin and a stiffer spine.
Jane Fonda has a great way of looking at the process of aging. She says people used to think about aging as an arc: “You’re born, you peak at midlife, and then you decline into decrepitude.” But that’s outdated, especially in a time when we can live healthy, productive lives for decades longer than previous generations. Now, Jane says, we should see aging as a staircase: “You gain well-being, spirit, soul, wisdom, the ability to be truly intimate, and a life with intention.”
It’s like the great athletes and actors who find new strengths as they age. Like Serena Williams playing smarter, not just harder, or LeBron James earning so many more assists in his later seasons, or Meryl Streep fearlessly embracing getting older in her life and roles.
That’s the kind of aging I want to do.
When Bill turned seventy, it struck him that he had now lived longer than any man in his family going back three generations. He had always secretly believed he would die young. And when he started having heart trouble, he became more sure of it. Yet somehow he was still here.
We started talking a lot about what it means to have more yesterdays than tomorrows. Putting it like that really focuses the mind. We both have a profound sense of gratitude for all the blessings we’ve received in our lives—and a sense of responsibility. It is clearer than ever that we have to use our remaining tomorrows to try to give our grandchildren—and all kids—a better world. Every day matters more if there are fewer of them ahead. What are we going to do with the time we have left? How can we make, in the words of Mary Oliver, our “one wild and precious life” count?
When you’re young, you live every day in the present tense. When you’re old, it’s tempting to live in the past, even an imagined past. These days, I find myself thinking mostly about the future—and how important it is to live, in Longfellow’s phrase, “with a heart for any fate.”
I’ve spent my life working to build a better, fairer, freer world, and I’ve lived long enough to see astounding progress. My family didn’t own a television set until I was five, yet I can now FaceTime with my grandchildren from across the globe. My mother was born before women had the right to vote and was able to proudly cast a ballot for me for president. I came of age in a world where women couldn’t have bank accounts in their own name and went on to become the first woman to win a presidential primary, the nomination of a major party, and the national popular vote. I grew up in a time of segregation, yet I had the great honor to serve as secretary of state for our first Black president. I hope the years ahead will bring even more exciting advances for America and the world. But, to borrow a line I love from the Tony Award–winning musical Suffs, “progress is possible, not guaranteed.” We have to work for it. Fight for it. Earn it. And right now, so much of what we’ve gained is in danger of being lost.
The January 6 insurrection scared me, and it should scare you, too. Our democracy is under assault from within and without. Abortion rights are already eliminated or severely restricted in more than half the states in our country. Voting rights are hanging by a thread. If Republicans take control of the government in the next election, I have no doubt they’ll try to tear up the social safety net we’ve spent generations building—big cuts to Medicaid, Medicare, and Social Security and gutting Obamacare. Anything that helps hardworking people get ahead and live a decent life will be on the chopping block. Instead of pulling together to take on generational challenges like climate change and economic inequality, it feels like we’re spinning further apart. Technology, especially social media, is making us more lonely and more divided—and it’s having a particularly devastating impact on our kids. Sometimes it seems as if common sense itself is in danger of disappearing. How else to explain the calls to poison control centers from people who drank bleach during the pandemic?
Yet despite all our problems, I remain “an optimist who worries a lot,” to borrow a phrase from my friend Madeleine Albright. I still believe there’s nothing wrong with America that can’t be fixed by what’s right with America. Our country is bigger than the trolls and tyrants. Still, if you’re not worried, you’re not paying attention. If you are paying attention, then keep setting goals and planning to make the most of all the tomorrows you have ahead. Let’s earn our optimism.
This country was built by men and women who believed in service, community, and working together for the greater good—pioneers who stuck together in wagon trains, farmers who pitched in on barn raisings and quilting bees, immigrants who joined volunteer fire departments, enslaved people who risked their lives to serve on the Underground Railroad and help others escape to freedom. When the French writer Alexis de Tocqueville visited America in the 1830s, he called this our “habits of the heart.” The sense that we’re all in it together made our democratic experiment possible—and it may be the only thing that can save us still.
Winning elections at every level is essential. We have to defeat the demagogues and election deniers so convincingly that there’s no room for dirty tricks. We have to strengthen voting rights and fight back against disinformation. But ultimately, winning the next election is not enough. We must work together to restitch our unraveling social fabric and to rebuild Americans’ trust in one another, our democracy, and our shared future. There’s so much to lose—but even more to gain if we keep going together.
“Tears and fears and feeling proud.” That’s what it was like writing this book. Once again Joni nailed it. I had several false starts and fell down more rabbit holes than Alice. But in the end, I found what I was looking for. This book reflects the mix of anxiety and optimism I feel in this strange, perilous moment. It’s a love letter to life, family, and democracy.
This book is a snapshot of how I see the world right now. My editor suggested that it should feel like sitting with me at a dinner party, so it’s both political and personal. It’s about the fight for democracy and also about being a friend, wife, mother, and grandmother. It’s about getting older—and, I hope, a little wiser. You should feel free to read it straight through or jump around, the way a good conversation does.
Despite spending decades in the public eye—or perhaps because of it—sharing my most personal reflections does not come naturally. Through all my years of public service, the “service” part has always come easier to me than the “public” part. I’d generally rather write about policy and politics. Make an argument. Have a debate. But I’ve discovered that it can be liberating to open up. I hope that combining the two—the broccoli and the ice cream, if you will—makes for a rewarding meal. You will find both in this book.
These days, I find myself thinking about the past with new perspective. I write about that. But more than anything, I find myself thinking about the future. I write about that, too. This book reflects the time in which it was written, in the spring and early summer of 2024, as it became clear Donald Trump would be the Republican presidential nominee, and so it explains my passionate, deeply felt conviction that allowing him to take power again would be catastrophic for our country and the world. If he gets back to the White House, we’ll have more inflation and less freedom. It won’t just be a rerun of his first term. Since losing in 2020, Trump has become even more unhinged and dangerous. He wants us to fear the future and fear one another. He’d take us backward, with abortion bans, tax cuts for billionaires, and sweetheart deals for polluters at home and dictators abroad. He’d rerun the same trickle-down economics playbook that has failed previous Republican presidents—including him. It’s not a coincidence that ten of the past eleven recessions have hit during Republican administrations. Trump presided over a significant net drop in jobs. And of all the net new jobs created in America since 1989, just 4 percent came under Republican administrations. Democratic administrations, including Biden-Harris, have inherited economic crises, gotten the country back on its feet, and helped create 96 percent of all the new jobs. It’s like clockwork: They break it, we fix it. With the Supreme Court granting him immunity from prosecution for official acts, there’s virtually no limit on the crimes he could commit and the damage he could do to our democracy.
I also explain why I think that electing Democrats is so crucial in this difficult time. Republicans have nominated a convicted criminal who only cares about himself. Democrats have led America’s comeback and at every level are fighting for the American people. That’s an easy choice. Can you tell I feel strongly about this?
But this book is not just about one election. The issues you’ll find in these pages, from the battle between democracy and autocracy to the fight for women’s rights and civil rights, the climate crisis, and the economic concerns of working families, all will continue to be vital no matter who wins in November. The work won’t stop. The fight will go on. And so must we.
I believe that if you want to keep going, you have to keep learning. You have to stay open to new experiences and new ideas. You’ll read about some of the ways I’ve been doing that. My students at Columbia University challenge me to see the world through their eyes and their passions. The women organizing resistance to cruel abortion bans in many states are upending long-standing assumptions about what is possible in politics. Ukrainian soldiers, citizens, and leaders are teaching all of us about the resilience of democracy.
I’m still learning from those closest to me. After nearly a half century of marriage, I discover new joys every day just from loving, talking, and laughing with my husband. Chelsea continues to delight and amaze me with her courage, from taking on bullies and liars wherever they emerge, including the fact-based battles she wages against vaccine deniers, to the global work she does to help bring health care to those in need. She tells her wonderful children she wants them to be brave and kind, both of which she is.
I’m still learning from my faith and the way it challenges me every day in this season of my life. As we are reassured in Isaiah 46:4, “I will be your God throughout your lifetime, until your hair is white with age. I made you and I will carry you along and save you.”
The years since the 2016 election have been ones of challenge and change for me, our country, and the world. I have followed the tumult from my home and from the inside of the maelstrom, looking for ways to help stop the tides of disunion and disinformation. I’ve kept busy supporting candidates and causes who represent my values, speaking out against threats to women and democracy. I’ve found new ways to pursue my interests, from the classroom to the theater. Everyone has to find their own approach to aging, but for me, remaining in the fight is who I am and who I’ll always be.
Joni Mitchell’s right. Something’s lost, but something’s gained. There’s more life to live. I can’t wait.
INSURRECTION
On the afternoon of January 6, 2021, I came home from a walk near our house in Chappaqua, New York, and found Bill and Chelsea transfixed in front of the television in our breakfast room. Bill was sitting at the glass table with his head in his hands and a sadness about him that I hadn’t seen in a long time. Chelsea was standing by the table, watching in shock and disbelief.
“What’s happened?” I asked, with a sinking feeling in my heart.
Bill and Chelsea both looked at me and started trying to explain the inexplicable. There was chaos at the Capitol. Nobody on cable news had a great handle on what was going on, but it looked as if a mob of Trump supporters was attacking police officers and forcing its way into the Capitol to disrupt the official certification of the 2020 election results. Trump himself had just given a speech to a crowd on the Ellipse outside the White House, urging his followers to “walk down Pennsylvania Avenue” and “fight like hell,” otherwise “you’re not going to have a country anymore.”
His claims of widespread voter fraud had already been exposed as a lie, plain and simple. There was no evidence. None. Every court had rejected his fantasies. Honest state and local elections officials—both Republicans and Democrats—had resisted his intimidation campaign. Yet he refused to admit he had lost, fair and square. Instead, he whipped his followers into a frenzy with the lie that somehow Vice President Mike Pence could single-handedly overturn the election results. The arsonist in chief had poured on the gasoline and lit the match. Now he stood back and watched from inside the White House as the conflagration ignited.
I sat down next to Bill and stared at the violent images in horror. I had served for eight years as a U.S. senator for New York. Every day, I’d walked the halls of the Capitol now filled with insurrectionists hunting members of Congress and the vice president. One of my happiest memories was taking the oath of office on the Senate floor on January 3, 2001, with Bill, Chelsea, and my mother beaming from the gallery above. I swore to “support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic.” Now, two decades later, those enemies were swarming that same Senate chamber.
I remember finding my desk on the Senate floor for the first time and feeling the weight of civic responsibility and the thrill of serving our great democracy. Now a shirtless rioter in face paint and a horned hat was rifling through papers left by fleeing senators. He became known as the QAnon Shaman and left a note that warned, “It’s only a matter of time, justice is coming.”
I thought about the fear we all felt during the evacuation of the Capitol on September 11, 2001. I had raced there as soon as I heard the news of the terrorist attacks on New York’s World Trade Center and then made sure my staff moved safely to a nearby town house on Capitol Hill after the evacuation. It was a terrible, disorienting, crushing day. Our country was under attack, and no one knew when or from where the next blow would come. Now, twenty years later, we were under attack again. I prayed for the senators, representatives, and staff trying to escape the mob and wondered how things possibly could have gotten this bad.
As we watched, I thought about my three grandchildren. They, along with their parents, had moved in with us in March 2020 during the COVID-19 pandemic. It was the only silver lining of the dark cloud that hung over the whole world. The six- and four-year-olds came over from the guesthouse to see us all the time, showing up in our bedroom early in the morning and asking Bill and me to make breakfast or play. They often came over in the afternoon for tea and cookies with me in the kitchen, time I treasured. How could we explain to them what was happening? Could we honestly tell them everything was going to be okay?
Later, one of my closest aides called to say that his brother Jon, a D.C. police officer on bicycle duty that day, had been urgently called to join the fight at the Capitol. Showing up with no protection other than a bike helmet, he’d joined his colleagues trying to hold the line outside. Soon he was pressed back by the surging mob, punched and pummeled through the rotunda, and then blinded with bear spray on the stairs up to the Senate chamber. Jon had been adopted from overseas as a baby and felt pride and gratitude for being an American. It was part of why he had joined the police force. Now there he was in the heart of American democracy, bleeding for the country that took him in.
