I have suffered a huge embarrassment. I allowed myself to be duped. Did something I was so proud of only to realize I’d behaved naively. I’m proud to say I only beat myself up for one portion of one afternoon. Not three full days or off and on for the rest of my life like I’ve done in the past.

Here’s the deal. I’ve been a closet Hillary supporter since the day Bernie conceded and I hopped cars on the train quickly and soundly. And quietly. New to Facebook, I was appalled at the political spewing and stayed clear. At one point, I asked my daughter if I was being disloyal by not expressing my opinions on social media and she assured me they call it “social” media for a reason. No politics necessary.

But in the excitement of the Monday before the Tuesday, I decided to share the heartfelt letter I’d written to our first woman president to be. In public. On her website. It was a coming out of sorts. A final nudge of support that just might put her over the top. Encourage her.

I posted it and then I sent the link to my daughter and two step daughters. I just knew they’d be proud of me.

Excited, I checked the website for responses only to find a post from a guy who basically said that everyone who was posting on this feed was stupid because it was obviously bogus and to think Hillary would ever receive any of these messages was ridiculous!

I died.

Not only had I been stupid enough to post on the obviously unofficial website, I had used my real, full name and city and then notified three of the smartest women I know to my blunder. I panicked. Questioned whether I should be allowed to post anything anywhere. Ever. Or even write. I emailed the girls a pitiful “never mind.”

Fortunately, I had an afternoon appointment that diverted my attention. Eventually, I got over myself and my personal embarrassment. I convinced myself that perhaps someone who reads that feed needed to hear what I had to say. I found peace. Forgave myself.

My message to my daughter and step daughters, young women, old women, even Hillary is this: we can be proud of our mistakes. Admit them. Laugh at ourselves. Then let it go. Find peace in the fact that maybe, just maybe, it wasn’t a mistake after all. And if it was, so be it. We all make them.

The letter you ask? Oh, sure. Here it is!

Dear Ms. Clinton:

I write to pledge my support as you are elected the first woman president of The United States of America tomorrow. My husband and I, both Indiana residents, voted for you and are praying for a landslide victory. I am excited about the pathway you forge for my daughters, daughter-in-law, and the high school young women I taught for years. May we all benefit from that shattering glass!

It is not without reservation, however, that I pledge my support. I pray that we all learn from past mistakes and that you approach your presidency with as much honesty and transparency as the job allows. I pray for those who will criticize and for a spirit of loving kindness in our great country.

My prayer is that you remain a strong leader who allows her compassion and vulnerability to shine. I cannot imagine what it must have been like for you working within the Good Old Boy network of government for the past three decades. Hopefully, we have evolved to the place where you will be accepted as a leader who is allowed the freedom to be human.

During the second debate when The Donald attacked your husband’s behavior I rooted for you to shut him down while gaining the support of millions of women by showing your own vulnerability with an answer something like this: “Donald, that was a terribly painful time for my family and me. Do not attempt to deflect your own guilt by bringing up a situation that is hurtful to me and has no bearing on my character or my ability to lead this nation.” Then to the moderator: “May we please discuss the issues that actually affect the American people.” Done. You admit that you have had personal hurt—as has every voter in America—and you make The Donald look like the mean-spirited person that he is.

All the best to you, your family, and your legacy, Madame President.

Debi Dixon