I organize his entire political career.
Now he wants to organize my mind.
I'm the anxious, overachieving assistant who keeps rising political star Gideon Strong on track-color-coded calendar, crisis plans, perfectly timed coffee. On the outside, I look unshakeable. Inside, my heart is always at 180.
When a donor meeting goes wrong, I finally crack in his office. I'm shaking, breath stuttering, waiting for him to tell me to "get it together."
Instead he quietly shuts the door and says,
"Sit. Look at me. In for four, out for four."
My body listens. My brain goes quiet.
He notices.
Soon our late nights come with "rules that are actually for me" ten minutes where I make zero decisions, no phone, no fixing anyone-just following his calm, precise voice until he says we're done. It's not therapy. It's not just stress relief. It's submission I choose...and denial that somehow makes me feel safe.
But when a leaked photo and a whisper campaign explode, I walk away "for the good of the campaign"-and learn the hard way that living without structure hurts more than any headline.
If I go back, it'll be on my terms: new job, new ethics, Rules 2.0 where my yes and my no matter more than any poll.
He may run a campaign.
But I'm the one who decides how-and when-I surrender.
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