It was Monday, Sep. 29, and the relentless wind flipped through the pages of my book, The Audacity of Hope by Barack Obama. My feet still ached from Saturday, when I had spent the entire day at El Cajon Valley High School dressed in business attire. The nude heels I wore were painfully uncomfortable, but I slipped them on anyway because they are the tallest pair I own. That is the kind of faux confidence I have to summon before every Speech and Debate tournament. I had spent the entire week submerged in current events because I was competing in United States Extemporaneous Speaking–a category where speakers are given just thirty minutes to prepare a seven-minute speech answering a question about domestic politics. My preparation entailed cramming as many forlorn headlines as possible, reading about the government’s looming shutdown, Trump’s latest weaponization of the justice system and ICE raids sweeping the country. Politics, once a source of fascination, now felt like a slow-motion car crash I could not look away from.

I was waiting outside the San Diego State University (SDSU) library for my friend Saphira, a freshman, to get out of her 9 a.m. class so we could begin our drive to Los Angeles for A Conversation with Kamala Harris at the Wiltern Theater. Outside, it was cooler than expected, and I sat shivering in my low-rise skirt, crop top, and sandals with nothing but my book to cling to for warmth. I could have gone inside–and I did for a brief moment–but it seemed outside was where all the life was. There was a vendor selling jewelry and bags outside the bookstore, birds hopping on the cobblestone floor, and an abundance of students walking to or from classes. The only thing inside was silence and the overwhelming feeling that I was not where I was supposed to be. “Who is this kid?” is what I surmised everyone was thinking as they studied for midterms. So I put up with the cold instead.

A particularly strong gust of wind caught the page just right, slicing a thin paper cut across my index finger. But it was so cold that I did not notice. My hands were numb. I had been annotating the same book in between speech rounds that weekend, highlighting and circling words that I once imagined might guide me in some distant campaign for the Senate. But that morning, the idea felt laughable. Who was I kidding? How could I dream of joining the same system that starts wars, abandons communities and treats people like pawns? I stared at the pages, then at my reflection in the library window–smudged eyeliner, chipped pedicure and the sinking realization that Washington would chew me up and spit me out. Like Carter, Clinton or Biden, I would walk out of Washington with my tail between my legs. So even if I somehow found the courage to believe that change could happen from within the system, who was I to think I was the one capable of making that happen?

By the time we hit the road, to say I was discouraged would be an understatement. Three hours in a car with my best friend was either going to fix my mood or solidify my despair. By hour two, Saphira, ever the political science major, asked me to give her a rundown of the day’s political climate. “Where do you want me to start?” I asked, flipping open my extemp notes filled with summaries from NPR, The Atlantic and The Economist. By the time we were half an hour from Los Angeles, we had covered everything from the Comey indictment to H1B visas. I am typically one to follow my heart, and amidst that political discussion, my brain and heart were diverging. My brain told me what I have always known: My beliefs are rooted in reason–in the data, the policies and the simple conviction that progress, equity and compassion are not radical ideals but long overdue. Yet, my heartbeat pulsed through my veins a familiar sense of inferiority. Caught in the pessimism of it all I felt passionate yet hopeless, and I could not shake the intuitive feeling that I lacked whatever it takes to have a voice in politics.

We had a few hours to kill before the show, so we stopped at The Last Bookstore downtown. If heaven exists for readers, this was it–a maze of shelves and suspended books. I spent the first hour wandering every aisle in hopes of finding a sign that said “POLITICAL SCIENCE.” When I finally found the corner of the store that held books on politics, government and foreign policy, I combed through every shelf at least three times. All the usual faces were there: Hillary and Bill, Obama, both Bushes and my old friend Jimmy Carter.

Normally, I would have been thrilled. But instead, I felt a pit in my stomach. Why would I spend fifteen dollars on a book written by someone who sent troops overseas or cut corners at home? Why should I feed my passion for politics when it suddenly felt more like a moral compromise than a calling? Every title, every smiling politician on a glossy cover, seemed to whisper: Politics is hopeless. Politicians are corrupt. Do not become one of us. I walked out of that bookstore empty-handed. Now, my cynicism was two-fold—a lack of faith in my own political identity, and a lack of confidence in the political leaders I admire.

When we arrived at the Wiltern, the energy was unlike anything I had felt all day. A line snaked down the block; vendors sold “Mr. Vice President, I’m speaking” shirts and pins that read “NO KINGS!” Local news crews interviewed eager ticket holders about why they were there. Everyone around me seemed electric with excitement–hopeful, even. And yet, I could not ignore the irony. We were here to celebrate the woman who lost the presidency, while the sitting president’s government teetered on the brink of shutdown.

By 7 o’clock we’d entered the Wiltern theater. After a quick security check, ushers handed us each a copy of Harris’s book, 107 Days. Then, through the speakers, came Beyoncé’s Freedom–the same song Harris used on her campaign trail. I had not heard it since the election, but suddenly I was back in last summer’s whirlwind of optimism: Staying up late to watch her interviews, texting friends to vote and believing–truly believing–that change was possible.  

A few minutes after 7 p.m., Harris walked on stage in a tan pantsuit and her signature silk press. The crowd roared. Seeing her–smiling, confident, very much human–hit me with a strange mix of admiration and clarity. There I was, in the room with former Vice President Harris. The disillusionment was still there–from the entire political system, my own party and even leaders like Harris who once inspired me to some extent but had learned to survive by playing the very game they swore to reform.

But sitting in that audience, I realized something important: For all her flaws, Harris still has insight to offer through her experience. The situation surrounding her is far from ideal. She is not a politician I aim to model my every move after. But if I want to work in the realm of politics, I need to confront an everlasting truth: Perfect is the enemy of good. Amidst the chaos of 2025 politics, I craved a perfect politician–the same kind of politician I felt I could never be. But truthfully, no one, and especially not a politician, is perfect.

While criticism is easy, it cannot be the only way I engage with politics–that approach is what left me so discouraged that I even considered abandoning politics altogether. It is easy to stare at a screen and point out flaw after flaw. But when the former vice president was sitting in front of me, I realized that I mustn’t let an opportunity to learn pass me by just because I do not agree with every aspect of the messenger. This sentiment rings true with my relationship with politics as a whole. Politics are complex. Politicians are complex. It is not black and white. So it is daunting to want to engage with that system, but that does not mean you should not. The truth is, I am inexperienced. It makes sense for me to feel insignificant and ill-equipped in the complicated world of politics. But that is exactly why opportunities like this are so important for young people like myself. Seeing Harris in person showed me that having so much to learn is not something to deter me from politics–it is something that should invigorate me to immerse myself in it–especially now, when it feels more urgent than ever.

By the time the event wound down, my hands had finally thawed. The numbness that had anchored me in a strange, half-detached state melted away, and with warmth returning to my fingers, I held that paper differently–almost tenderly. The words I had once skimmed with detachment now felt alive, fragile, and full of possibility. I thought of Obama’s 2004 DNC keynote address, where he first used the phrase “the audacity of hope”—later the title of his second book—and how he defined hope not as blind optimism, but as the courage to believe in change despite imperfection. That same kind of hope–audacious, deliberate–is what it takes to listen to the words of imperfect leaders like Clinton, or even those I fundamentally disagree with, like Bush, in the name of learning. It is the hope that pushes you to engage, to absorb and to understand, so that one day, equipped with knowledge and perspective, you can step into politics yourself and make meaningful change. Holding that paper, feeling my own hands pulse with warmth and life again, I realized that hope, like sensation itself, is something you have to risk touching–even after long stretches of numbness.