It’s the scent of stale coffee and days-old takeout, and the way sleeplessness and anxiety are thick in the air. There’s nubby, ugly carpeting under my feet and buzzing fluorescents overhead, but still, my heart rate kicks up a notch, adrenaline spiking in anticipation. I’m not in the habit of quoting Hamilton, but this is one of the rooms where it happens. And this is the energy that’s kept me from leaving politics, even when staying starts to feel like self-sabotage.
