Fourteen months ago, I predicted that the 2026 midterms could look a lot like the Democratic wave of 2006. And earlier this week, I put some actual numbers on paper: 236 Democratic seats in the House and 54 in the Senate. Well, folks, how about that? Democrats have taken back both chambers of Congress. We’ve already secured 54 Senate seats, and we’re still counting House races. And some of those surprises I told you to watch for actually happened. In Kansas, Adam Hamilton defeated an incumbent Republican senator. And in my home state of South Carolina, Dr. Annie Andrews did something Democrats haven’t done since 1998: win a United States Senate election. Across the country, Democrats won races in places that Washington had long written off. I’ll have plenty more to say about what happened, what the results tell us, and what they mean for the future of our party. But today, I’ve been thinking about something else. For every candidate celebrating a victory, there’s another trying to make sense of a loss. I’ve been on both sides of politics, and I know how much candidates, their families, and their teams sacrifice. So I want to talk to both groups about what comes next.
To the WinnersFirst, congratulations. You and your teams have earned the right to celebrate. Campaigns are exhausting. Enjoy the moment, thank the people who helped get you there, and take a little time to appreciate what you’ve accomplished. But don’t forget why you ran in the first place. The people who voted for you were looking for someone who understood what their families were going through and might actually do something about it. They still have bills to pay, families to feed, and communities that need attention. Those problems didn’t disappear because you won an election. I learned something about political majorities in 2006. Republicans had controlled the House for twelve years, and many of them had started behaving as though that majority was their birthright. Then voters took it away. Political power is borrowed, not owned, and there’s no guarantee voters will let you keep it. Remember that when the celebrations end and the real work begins. To Those Who Came Up ShortNow, I want to talk to the candidates who didn’t win, because I know exactly what that feels like. In 2020, I ran for the United States Senate against Lindsey Graham. We built a campaign that shattered fundraising records, raised more than $130 million, and earned the support of more than a million South Carolinians. I had an incredible team, a lot of people who believed in me, and a family that sacrificed more than I can adequately describe. And after all that, we lost. That loss hurt like hell. I had spent years believing we could change the political landscape in South Carolina, and I had put everything I had into making it happen. Like a lot of candidates who lose, I found myself wondering what I could have done differently and whether all those sacrifices had been worth it. That’s when I leaned on the wisdom of my grandmother, Ms. Bookie. My grandmother wasn’t a political strategist. She didn’t have a law degree or a fancy title. But she was one of the wisest people I’ve ever known. She had lived through poverty, discrimination, and some of the ugliest chapters of our country’s history. She had seen things no human being should ever have to see, but she never lost her faith or her belief that better days were possible. Throughout my life, she reminded me that everything happens for a reason. And whenever something didn’t go my way, she had another piece of advice: just because one door closes doesn’t mean another won’t open. You have to be ready when it does. Now, I’ll admit that wasn’t exactly what I wanted to hear after losing a Senate race. Sometimes you just want somebody to agree that you got a raw deal. But my grandmother wasn’t interested in letting me spend the rest of my life feeling sorry for myself. And wouldn’t you know it? Just a few months after losing that race, I became Chairman of the Democratic National Committee. Think about that for a minute. A little boy who grew up poor in Orangeburg, South Carolina, who experienced homelessness and watched his grandparents work themselves to the bone to provide for our family, suddenly found himself leading the oldest political party in the world. If you’d told me on Election Night in 2020 that I’d be DNC chair just a few months later, I probably would have looked at you like you’d lost your mind. But that’s what happened. Now, I realize how this might sound coming from somebody who landed a pretty extraordinary job after losing an election. I’m not suggesting that every defeat leads to some wonderful new opportunity or that losing is secretly a blessing. Sometimes you lose, it hurts, and there’s no satisfying explanation for why things turned out the way they did. What I am saying is that losing an election doesn’t mean you’ve lost your purpose. The work you did, the relationships you built, and the people you inspired don’t suddenly disappear because the vote count didn’t go your way. And that’s something I hope every candidate who came up short yesterday will remember. The Work Doesn’t End HereOne of the things that has always bothered me about politics is watching good people disappear after losing an election. They spend months telling voters about the problems facing their communities, organizing volunteers, and building relationships. Then Election Day doesn’t go their way, and we never hear from them again. Believe me, I understand the temptation. Losing is exhausting, especially when you’ve given a campaign everything you have. Take some time to rest, spend time with your family, and thank the people who stood with you. Nobody expects you to jump right back into the fight the day after an election. But think about why you ran. If you wanted to improve your local schools, those schools still need your help. If you wanted to make health care more affordable or bring better jobs to your community, those challenges haven’t gone anywhere. The election may be over, but the reasons you got involved in the first place are still there. There are plenty of ways to serve without holding elected office. You can mentor young people, support local organizations, help recruit the next generation of candidates, or advocate for the issues that matter to your community. And if you’ve still got that fire in your belly, you can always run again. I also hope you’ll remember the people who believed in you. The volunteers who knocked on doors, the donors who gave what they could, the staffers who worked late into the night, and the voters who trusted you enough to share their stories. They weren’t simply investing in a campaign. They were investing in you and your ability to make a difference. Don’t let that investment end with a concession speech. My grandmother passed away last year, and I still have moments when I reach for the phone because I want to tell her something. Sometimes it’s good news. Sometimes it’s something I’m struggling with. And sometimes I just want to hear her voice. I miss her terribly, but I carry her wisdom with me. She taught me that disappointment is part of life, that we can’t control every outcome, and that we never know what opportunities might be waiting around the corner. The important thing is to keep doing the work and be ready when the next door opens. That’s what I want the people who poured their hearts into this election to remember, regardless of how Tuesday night turned out. Winning an election gives you an opportunity to serve in a particular office. Losing one doesn’t take away your ability to make a difference. I’ve learned that firsthand, and I’ve seen it in the lives of countless people who have devoted themselves to their communities without ever holding an elected title. You’re currently a free subscriber to Jaime’s Table. For the full experience, upgrade your subscription.
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