Tomorrow morning, hundreds of candidates across New Jersey will wake up with the same strange feeling: after months — maybe years — of planning, knocking, dialing, pleading, hoping — there’s nothing left for them to do.
Democracy, that noisy, unpredictable animal, is out of their hands now.
It’s a hard truth for anyone who’s ever been on the ballot. You’ve gone from a thousand decisions a day to none. From frantic motion to stillness. From control to surrender.
If you slept at all, your alarm goes off and the questions come flooding in: Did we knock on enough doors? Did we send enough mail? Did we spend too much? Too little? Did we punch hard enough? Did we go too negative? Should we have gone to that last diner in that last town on that last Sunday?
The brutal part is that, by now, none of those questions matter. If you took it seriously — really seriously — you’ve done everything you can. But that doesn’t stop the autopsy from running on a loop in your head.
Some veterans cling to superstition. One wears the same tie he wore the night he first won. Another makes the rounds with coffee and donuts for poll workers, like a nervous groom visiting every table before the wedding starts.
Others try to stay busy. They stop by headquarters, check on turnout calls, offer to drive voters to the polls. Some even show up to “observe” — as if, at 11 a.m., there’s still something left to control.
It’s endearing. And ridiculous.
The truth is, Election Day isn’t for the candidate anymore. It’s for the team. The staff, if they’re any good, have a system humming: turnout reports, lawyers on standby, challengers checking rolls, and a manager who’s too exhausted to feel feelings until 8:01 p.m.
Candidates have no business being in the middle of that. They only make it worse. Every well-meaning text — “Hey, this one precinct looks slow” — becomes another small panic. Someone will always “report directly to the candidate” to show their importance. Always. It’s a law of political physics.
That’s why, on Election Day, the best thing a candidate can do is channel the Hippocratic oath: first, do no harm.
If you have a good team, trust them. If you don’t, it’s too late anyway.
I know one member of Congress who went bowling with staff every Election Day, and they all hated bowling. Another candidate spent four hours at the same Italian restaurant every year with the same three supporters, talking about everything except the race. One Mercer County legislator brought cookies to poll workers — using campaign funds, because he wouldn’t dip into his own pocket. There’s always a routine.
In 2007, during my last contested race, I spent the final week obsessing over every detail. By Election Day, I was exhausted and useless — and, for once, I listened when my staff told me to get lost.
I wandered around, thanked volunteers, even played a few holes of golf (I hated golf). I napped. I watched the clock like a child watches Christmas Eve. And when the first results came in — our bellwether town, two-to-one in our favor — I knew we’d won.
At that moment, the exhaustion disappeared. Every door, every call, every argument, every dollar raised — it all led to that one line of numbers on a sheet of paper.
And here’s the thing: win or lose, that moment is worth something.
Because it’s not just about victory. It’s about faith.
Faith that voters will see what you saw.
Faith that effort still matters.
Faith that democracy, for all its mess and mystery, still works.
Candidates: If you took the campaign seriously and did everything you were supposed to — there’s nothing left for you to do or worry over.
Campaign Staff: Your candidate is going to ignore the sentence above. It’s on you to pack their day with distractions, so you can do your job.
So tomorrow, if you’re a candidate, breathe. Say thank you. Eat something. Leave the phone alone. Don’t ask about turnout or late mail ballots or what’s happening in a ward or voting distrrict. Just don’t.
Let your campaign manager earn their paycheck.
If you did the work, the day will take care of itself.
And if you didn’t — well, you’ll have a very long night to think about that.
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