The Announcement That Wasn't

My story about deciding whether to run for office

Nov 02, 2023

I spent most of my summer considering whether I should run for state office. This was a big decision for me—it rivaled the gravity and weightiness of other transformative decisions in my life, like whether to try for a third child.

In the end (spoiler!), I decided not to run.

I’m at peace with this choice. But being at peace with something doesn’t mean it always feels warm and fuzzy. Sometimes it feels icky and gross.

Like on Saturday afternoon, for example, when I was watching my daughter’s soccer game, and Governor Reynolds strolled up to the sideline just feet away from me.

She wasn’t doing anything wrong; I presume she was just there to watch her granddaughter. But her presence reminded me of all that is ugly in this state—and how I had the chance to do something about it but chose not to.

Cue the icky.

Cue the gross.

When I was a teenager, I dreamed of running for office one day. (I even said out loud, publicly, on more than one occasion that I wanted to be the President of the United States. Kids really do say the darndest things!) My aspirations, albeit naïve, were born out of my foundational, innate beliefs of equality, kindness and helping those in need.

Though my POTUS dreams died as I transitioned out of adolescence and into adulthood, my core values never wavered. So when our state starting skewing away from these principles, I felt the same pull I did as a teen—to go fucking do something about it.

But unlike 17-year-old (aspiring future President) me, 36-year-old me has a full-time job, a podcast, a column, an addiction to running half marathons, friends with whom I love adventuring and, most importantly, a family.

To quote Ferris Bueller, life moves pretty fast, indeed.

The truth is, I could probably handle most of those things while running for state office. I’m an elite task juggler, and I love a good to-do list. But what kept ricocheting in my brain this summer, like a marble in a pinball machine, was whether running for state office would allow me to be the same kind of mom that I am now.

In her book Untamed, my favorite author, Glennon Doyle, coined what she calls her Knowing.

“Eventually I sank deep enough to find a new level inside me that I’d never known existed. This place is underneath; low, deep, quiet, still. There are no voices there, not even my own. . . . There, in the deep, I could sense something circulating inside me. It was a Knowing.
I can know things down at this level that I can’t on the chaotic surface. Down here, when I pose a question about my life—in words or abstract images—I sense a nudge. The nudge guides me toward the next precise thing, and then, when I silently acknowledge the nudge—it fills me. The Knowing feels like warm liquid gold filling my veins and solidifying just enough to make me feel steady, certain.”

I’ve spent the last several years leaning into my Knowing, and it has yet to lead me astray.

So when I dug into my Knowing this summer, I listened when it told me not to disrupt what feels like the perfect balance I’ve struck between motherhood and lawyering (and running and writing and podcasting and all the other things). Adding something like a state office to my load felt like it would offset my equilibrium—and not in the way that forces you to become stronger (if you’ve ever injured your ankle and had to do physical therapy on a stability trainer, you know what I mean), but in the way that everything comes crashing down.

It sounds ridiculous, but I kept thinking of Red Panda, the basketball halftime act where a tiny woman rides a 7-foot-tall unicycle while catching and balancing ceramic bowls on her feet and head. Right now, I’m Red Panda—I’m dazzling the crowd (myself) with my balance and grace. If I ran for office, though, I knew the bowls would topple spectacularly, with video of their shattered remains all over social media, like a train wreck from which we can’t look away.

And no, to the schmuck in his mom’s basement who will inevitably try to misconstrue my words, I am NOT saying women who run for office are worse mothers than they were before they ran. I’m not saying that in the slightest. In fact, I talked to several state representatives who are mothers, and every single one of them told me they are *better* moms now—and I believe them wholeheartedly! But that’s because they went through the same decision-making process I did and their Knowing gave them a different answer.

My Knowing is this: Right now, I can’t be a mom who happens to be a lawyer and all the other things I am today if I am also a state representative.

I fully appreciate that my decision not to run let some people down, including people I respect deeply. I’m also acutely aware that the icky and gross I felt last Saturday will happen more and more frequently as Election Day 2024 approaches. I’m certain I’ll have hours and days when I feel as though I let my city and state down—and maybe I did.

But I’m committed to my Knowing.

So while I may not be a mom who happens to be a state representative (at least this time around), I am still a mom who has the fire to go fucking do something about it, and I will—just not via yard signs with my name on them.

Have you explored the variety of writers in the Iowa Writer’s Collaborative? They are from around the state and contribute commentary and feature stories of interest to those who care about Iowa. Please pick five you’d like to support by becoming paid. It helps keep them going. Enjoy: