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Running for the presidency and being the president are awfully different things.

When one runs for president, he is a superhero, galloping from town to town atop a white horse, promising hope and fortune and something called The American Dream. He can say whatever he pleases; guarantee whatever he wishes to guarantee; talk of better days to come; of a light atop a hill; of glory and prosperity.

When one is the president, he works a desk job. An awful desk job. People take shots at him all day. He becomes increasingly isolated and alone. He believes those around him, often to his own peril.

When Barack Obama ran for president, I bought the dream. I was initially reluctant; I’m 39—old enough to know how these things work. Yet, especially on the awful heels of George W. Bush, Obama seemed different. Yes, he was young and African-American and a dazzling speaker. But it was more than that. Obama peddled hope; peddled this idea that, just maybe, we can unite as a nation again and work together. I loved hearing that, especially because George W. Bush’s ram-the-shit-through administration had been an ode to thuggery. I was ready for change. Beyond ready.

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