Dear Joe Biden,

An open letter to my President.

Dear President Biden,

I should open with a caveat that my causal tone isn’t the least bit reflective of my disregard for you or your consequential lifetime career of public service, but rather the result of the fact that I’m typing most if not all of this through buckets of tears, and I can’t see the letters I’m striking all too well, so I’m going for expediency as much as I’m going for eloquence.

So here goes.

Alright, I’ve given this some time now. I’ve given it a lot of thought. I’ve cried a lot. I’ve reflected a lot. I’ve sworn a lot. I’ve stood up and done what I needed to do, what you asked us all to do, and after doing all of that, and feeling all of that, I can’t help but keep coming back to this one single inescapable thought at the center of it all…

I don’t want you to go.

I don’t want to let you go.

I’m sad and I’m mad and I want what I want and I don’t want to be a big girl right now. I don’t want to be brave. I don’t want to understand how all of this works. I don’t want to say goodbye. Not even so long for now. Not now. Maybe not ever. And yes, I also know just how selfish and silly all of that sounds.

But it doesn’t make it any less true.

And if it sounds childish, well — I can answer that too, because between us sir, it is childish. Because for reasons I understand now, at least for reasons I’m trying to understand now, when it comes to you, my heart and my mind have long since retreated to a very child-like state.

And that’s ok too.

You see, when I was very young, my dad rescued me and my siblings from my mother, who was a complicated woman who faced her own demons, and while I’m sure there are a thousand psychological terms to define what I feel when it comes to you as it relates to my dad, the best, most concise way I can describe it — comes down to my idea of you rescuing us from the bad guys.

From the bullies.

Like my dad did.

Because, at the end of the day — that’s exactly what you did.

So letting you go feels a lot like letting my dad go all over again.

I lost him suddenly in 2011. And that was a pain unlike any I’ve ever known and one which I never want to know again.

So, I’ve had to split myself into pieces to cope with all of this, even though I know what needs to happen and I accept what is happening no matter how much I dislike it, because there is this child-like me who refuses to let you go, and then there is mom me who needs the kids to see a steadiness and surety which I’m simply not feeling yet but must convey, and then there is the “big picture” me who understands that this is about so much more than the name on a ballot. About more than the human being I love with every fiber of my being.

I can’t help it. I just can’t. I love you.

I got to meet you, you see.

It was a very warm early September day. I was in DC as per the invitation from your office. And I don’t think I’ve ever been more excited for anything which didn’t pertain to the birth of my kids in the entirety of my life.

The event ended, and you didn’t leave. Nope. You stayed. Out there in the sun. In that heat. You made your way down the line of people waiting, one by one, two by two, listening and connecting to story after story, human being after human being, as people approached with hands outstretched.

And then it was my turn. It was MY turn. This little girl from Jersey for whom you’d changed the whole world. A woman who’d lost her complicated mom, her only big brother and her hero dad within a few short years. A mom who a few months earlier didn’t have the money to feed her kids. It was my turn.

You were standing there, hand extended to say hello.

“Hi, I’m Joanne from New Jersey” I said.

I still don’t know why I said that. From New Jersey as if I thought the President of the United States needed to know which of the states I was from. But it does speak to the childlike way I viewed you, and view you still.

“Well, hi Joanne, how are you? It’s so nice to meet you.”

I started to talk, but I couldn’t stop the tears.

“I’ve wanted you to be our President from when I was very young. I saw a photo of you in a magazine. And I couldn’t wait to tell my dad all about you.”

And you said, “Oh yeah, is that right?”

To which I muttered through the kinds of tears I’m shedding now, “I’m so proud to call you my President.”

To which you responded, “I’m so proud to meet you.”

And then, that little girl who missed her dad more than anything in the whole entire world, who missed having a tangible hero to hold, a good man to make all her troubles melt away, asked a question of you which makes so much sense to me now in retrospect.

“Can I hug you?” I asked. “Is that allowed?”

To which you replied, while wearing those signature aviators of yours, with that great big Joe Biden smile, “Allowed? I say what’s allowed. Now, give me a hug.”

And you hugged me like my dad had always done. You hugged me. And you let me hug you. And it was as if my dad were there even though he wasn’t. It was as if he was watching.

His precocious at best, big mouthed brat at worst, spirited baby girl who picked politics because it was the only lane none of her 4 older siblings had taken and meant an open path to her dad that was all her own, was hugging the President of the United States in front of the White House.

She was ok. She was going to be ok. Her kids were going to be ok.

You made me feel that. You gave that to me.

And I’ll carry that with me for eternity.

But, you see there’s this one problem I’m really struggling with right now — and that is while that child inside of me can’t let you go, and doesn’t want to let you go, I know that if I’m going to truly honor your legacy, I am going to have to.

I have to let you go. I have to lift my chin. I have to stiffen my spine. And I have to focus on the path forward. The one you’re pointing me towards even though I don’t believe for a single second you really want to be the one pointing in this moment instead of leading.

I have to remind myself that you’re still here. And that you’re doing exactly what I’ve always maintained you already did — you’re leading. Selflessly.

My dad gave up so much to take custody of five kids when men simply weren’t doing that.

And you have sacrificed your second term to heal our party and to defeat the bullies when politicians simply don’t do that.

And while that little girl who got that great big hug is really, really struggling with the idea of ever letting you go, she knows that this is about so much more than that. So much more than her.

If you can put what you expected the future would hold to the side for the greater good, so can she.

Even though it hurts like hell.

I will support Kamala with all I have. I’m gonna rub some dirt on my hands, put my dukes up and I am going to fight.

For you, for her, for my babies, and for the future you helped secure when you beat that yam-dyed dickhead the last time.

I love you like my own father.

I’ll always love you.

I have always believed you were the bridge to the next generation, I just didn’t imagine it would be so soon.

And even though it hurts like hell, I’ll follow your lead in letting you go. Because it is ultimately for the greater good. But I also know that you won’t really be gone. Just perched on the periphery, never fully out of view.

And in the meantime, I’ll make damn sure what you’re giving up now wasn’t in vain.

I’ll never fight harder. I promise you.

Thank you, President Biden. Thank you for everything. Thank you for rescuing me and an entire nation at the same time.

Twice.

- Joanne from New Jersey