Rebuilding turned out to be harder than election night. 

On June 28, 2022, as I walked away from the podium after losing my primary election in a landslide, I was suppressing tears, clenching my hands, and trying hard to offer some version of an authentic smile. I wasn’t smiling in appreciation for the crowd’s longtime support or in gratitude for my team and volunteers at that moment, although I was eternally grateful to all. 

I was smiling because it was over. 

The torture was over. I felt equal parts devastating disappointment and overwhelming relief.

The full rush of humiliation and betrayal washed over me. I felt numb and out of my body; I held my head high and walked through the crowd to thank people from the bottom of my heart. One thing I knew for sure: I wouldn’t be the “victim.” Instead, I would take this painful lesson and use it to help others, but in a different way.

I loved my job as a congresswoman. It was an honor and my greatest pleasure to solve problems with the community. In the days after the election, I was absolutely lost and barely functioning. I was dealing with staff issues, taking votes, helping constituents, but in a bit of a dissociated sort of way. The most visceral reaction I was struggling with was “Am I done now?”

I have often told my kids, “In a crisis we find out who we are and what matters most.” Well, now it was my turn.

I had no regrets. I did my best, and I learned I was the same person who went into professional politics—the one who cared about injustice, people hurting, and fixing problems. I was now wiser and would offer public service in another forum.

During that time, I kept my struggles and insecurities mostly unsaid, as my pride wouldn’t allow anyone to see that I was bothered by all of this. This is not recommended behavior. My best friend and husband knew I was struggling, but really nobody else.

The Wrong Next Act

I made mistakes before I found the right way forward.

Within weeks of leaving Congress, I felt immense pressure to show my worth and obtain a job that was equal in impact to my prior role. Hastily, after receiving a few offers, I made the decision to join a large national nonprofit as its CEO. The problem was that I wasn’t passionate about it, but I felt it was the right thing to do.

Within months, I was bored and unhappy. I distinctly remember the moment I knew it was a mistake. I was sitting in a conference room with my executive team, including two members who always had an excuse or toxic comment when something wasn’t completed. That day, they launched into a monologue I was in no mood for. I lost my temper and used an inappropriate tone with them, and I realized right there that I didn’t want to manage people anymore and was done cajoling and herding cats. At another meeting later that day, they again refused to make important decisions on ways to move the organization forward, and I also knew I didn’t want others to control my actions or my career.

I gave the organization plenty of notice, and we parted amicably.

You’re Not the Only One

One of the most healing things that happened shortly after I left Congress was that other women came to me with similar struggles. We somehow had a shared, known language we all understood.

Not long after I started my own job search, the calls from friends and friends of friends in the same predicament grew. They were in their 50s and 60s, had recently and unexpectedly lost their jobs, and were completely lost. They were asking the same question: “Who am I now?”

Many women wrap their identity in their jobs because their careers fit like a glove, giving them purpose and true fulfillment. So, when folks say, “It’s just a job…,” it’s not; it’s a part of you, and it hurts like losing a limb to many of us.

My dear friend Elizabeth, whose name I’ve changed at her request, was a marketing executive with a résumé people would die for. My heart broke for her when she called.

After coming close on several opportunities and then losing out to younger, far less experienced candidates who would work for less, she told me she felt “erased” and “invisible.”

Worse than just mourning that loss, as a single parent, she had no other income to fall back on; she had insurance bills, a mortgage, and her son’s imminent college tuition to consider. This wasn’t just about feelings; this was about real life and the pressing need for ongoing income. She wasn’t ready financially or emotionally for retirement.

Elizabeth told me she and her friends in job-search mode had developed a “stages of grief” model: denial after losing a career or a job, followed by the identity crisis of “Who am I now?” Then comes “false hope,” when interviews brighten your spirits temporarily. After a bit of reinvention and adaptation, you realize that updating your skills and marketing yourself differently is the only way forward.

Ultimately, Elizabeth cobbled together a stream of contract work that’s satisfying and a good Band-Aid for her as her search goes on.

The fact remains that she deserves better.

Of the 20-plus women I spoke with over two years, most asked me not to use their real names because they feared being labeled “whiny,” “difficult,” or “full of revenge.” They’re right. They would be.

The Third Act

Dorothy Rosen, CEO of Women Belong, co-founded the networking community precisely because she was pushed out before she was ready. She started to contemplate, “What’s my third act?” The answer was creating a community to help women answer this question. Many of them had already created their “second act” and were now searching for their third.

Rosen’s most important insight is about society itself: We tend to throw away wisdom and experience when most organizations desperately need it. 

What I Want Now

After leaving the nonprofit, I had another clear epiphany: I wanted to use my creative brain again. I missed dreaming up new ideas and writing.

So, I mixed it all in a pot and started a Substack, joined a radio show as a co-host, and started writing books. I published a nonfiction book last year and went on to write two fictional thrillers coming out in 2027.

I’ll never stop figuring out who I am now, and that is a good thing.