The Letter in the Drawer
Dear Mr. President—
(For that is what you will be when you read this note.)
They tell you not to write a letter like this when you’re angry.
I understand why now. And yet despite not knowing why, I waited until now to write it, I took the advice of my advisers. I have done that a lot over these past four years. You’ll find you will, too. Don’t be afraid of that. And don’t be afraid to ignore them and make the best choice you know how despite them either.
That’s what we signed up for when we asked for this job.
It’s half past 3:00 a.m. as I write this. The house is too quiet—in that unnatural way it only has on the edge of transition. Walls heavy with history. Floors aching with footsteps long since buried. Even the chandeliers seem to hold their breath.
I’m sitting alone at the Resolute Desk. Chamomile gone cold. Staff upstairs, pretending to sleep. The last boxes packed. The last call placed.
And now, there’s just the drawer.
And this letter.
I’ve written it by hand in part because it feels more personal that way, and not very many will be speaking to you personally for a long time. But admittedly, I’ve also written it by hand in case it ever makes it to a presidential library or museum.
I’m vain, and I want folks to think I’m folksier than I really am.
Maybe they’ll skip over that last paragraph.
Or maybe they’ll just think I’m funny.
Over the past few weeks, since you won the election and cut my time short, I’ve found myself more and more eager to write this letter. Not because tradition demands it. Not because history expects it. But because when you’ve carried this weight—even for just four years—you owe something to the next man who will.
And you, sir, are next.
Just remember—you asked for this job.
Here are a few things I have learned by doing it. Perhaps you will find some of it valuable.
I’ll start with the first thing I learned the hard way:
It’s not the power that breaks you. It’s the silence after you use it.
There’s a kind of silence that follows a drone strike approval. That sits in the room long after the advisors leave. That crawls into your chest when you’re told two children were among the casualties and nobody can look you in the eye.
You’ll give orders. Some will save lives. Some won’t.
The fact is that there are days you will make terrible choices in this job and no one will die. And there are days you will make exactly the right choice, and a lot of people will die—all of this as a result of your choice to do the right thing. And sometimes it will go exactly the opposite way.
As presidents, we don’t typically get to choose the outcomes. But the choices are still ours to make—and we have to be okay with the choices we make—and okay with ourselves no matter the results or the consensus regarding the wisdom of our choices.
That, sir, is the job.
And people will talk—a lot. The press will scream. Senators will pontificate. Your base will cheer or boo or turn their backs. But beneath all that sound is the silence that never leaves.
You’ll hear it in your wife’s voice when she asks you if you’re okay.
And you’ll hear it in her silence when she doesn’t agree with a choice you’ve made.
You’ll hear it in your son’s eyes when he won’t say what he’s thinking.
You’ll hear it when the lights are off and you’re staring at a ceiling too ornate to feel familiar.
You need to make peace with that silence. Or it will eat you alive.
You and I—we see this country differently. That’s no secret. We clashed on that stage more times than I can count. You got your shots in. So did I.
But when we shook hands behind closed doors, it was real. You’re a good man. I believe that. We just see different storms on the horizon. And different roads out.
So let me leave you what I can. Not instructions. Not advice, even. Just… what I wish someone had told me.
Lead from the long view.
I remember the night I passed my first real bill. Mortgage relief. Clean win. Months of backroom deals and town halls, and we got it done. I thought I’d changed the world.
Two hours later, a news anchor called me a coward.
Four hours later, my daughter called me crying. She’d been heckled at her college coffee shop.
The next morning, I stood on the Truman Balcony, coffee in hand, and asked myself if it had been worth it.
The answer? Yes.
But not right away.
If you do this right, you won’t always get to see the fruit of what you plant.
You’ll fight for clean air and never get to breathe it.
You’ll fight for a better system and watch the old one spit in your face.
Do it anyway.
Because someone down the line will live easier for your effort. Even if they never learn your name.
Here’s something no one tells you:
You will be tempted. And the temptation won’t feel like evil. It will feel like efficiency.
The first time it happened, I was standing in the men’s room of a defense conference. A senator I respected offered me a favor—one clause buried deep in an appropriations bill. It would help pass a clean water initiative. He said it like he was doing me a kindness.
I didn’t say yes. Not then. But I thought about it for days.
And I wish I could tell you that was the last time.
It’s not always money or power they offer. Sometimes it’s safety. Sometimes it’s peace of mind.
You’ll be offered shortcuts. You’ll be told they’re harmless. That they’ll help you “get things done.”
But if you ever wake up and can’t look yourself in the mirror, no one else’s approval will make up the difference.
You’ll have victories, too. Small ones. Quiet ones. The kind nobody puts on a bumper sticker.
Like the time I visited a school in Cleveland. No cameras. Just me and the janitor and the principal. The heat hadn’t worked in months. We fixed it. Quietly. The janitor shook my hand, tears in his eyes, and said, “They’ll be warm this winter.”
That was enough.
You’ll need moments like that. Remember them. Because they’re rare.
Here’s what else I know:
You will fail sometimes.
Not because you’re weak. Or wrong. But because no man can carry a nation perfectly.
And despite the pomp and circumstance, at the end of the day, that’s what we are—men.
It was packed away yesterday, but one of my favorite pieces I had on display in my office was an old ceramic pitcher of my mother’s.
It was a wedding gift to her from her mother.
When I was twelve, I broke it horsing around with my brother in the kitchen.
I knew the sentimental value of that pitcher to my mother, and so I spent a whole day painstakingly gluing it back together.
As these things go, it was no good for lemonade anymore. The cracks browned with age, but my mother put silk flowers in it and always kept it in a prominent place—to remind me that when we break things, we still leave scars.
And to remind me, as I grew in favor with people as a leader, that I am flawed but useful.
She gave that pitcher to me the day I became governor of North Carolina. Sadly, she never lived to see me inaugurated president, but I kept it in the Oval all four years—a simple reminder to stay humble.
To always be smaller than the office.
As president, you’ll miss things. Misread things. You’ll back the wrong bill. Hire the wrong person. Let your pride outrun your judgment.
You’ll apologize, or you won’t.
Either way, it’ll leave a scar.
Wear it.
We don’t need perfect presidents.
We need honest ones.
And then there’s the loneliness.
You’ll have advisors, chiefs, strategists, pollsters. You’ll have hundreds of people willing to take a bullet for you.
And still, you’ll feel alone.
The first time it happened to me, I was watching the sunset from the South Lawn. Just me and my dog, Barkley. He was old. Slowing down. But still loyal. Still warm.
He died two months later. I cried on the rug of this office with his collar in my hand.
The next morning, I had to announce sanctions. No time to mourn.
Grief doesn’t care about titles.
And neither does this job.
You’re going to want to fix everything. You won’t be able to.
Start with people.
The country isn’t a policy sheet. It’s people.
The coal miner in West Virginia who still teaches Sunday school.
The immigrant in Queens who drives Uber and sends half his check home.
The single mom in Chicago who works the night shift and still shows up to parent-teacher conferences with her hair tied back and her hope intact.
They’ll break your heart.
They’ll keep you going.
Let them.
You and I may never agree on how best to serve them. That’s alright.
Disagreement isn’t failure. It’s democracy.
But if I can ask one thing—just one thing—it’s this:
Never confuse popularity with purpose.
The cameras will lie to you. The crowds will fade. The polls will rise and fall.
But the people? They’re watching.
They’re listening.
And they remember who showed up when it mattered.
So show up. Every day.
Even when it’s thankless.
Especially then.
By the time you read this, I’ll be gone.
The drawer will be closed.
The rug vacuumed.
The portrait adjusted.
You’ll take the oath.
Shake the hands.
Smile for the cameras.
And then, when the doors close, you’ll be alone with this desk.
With the silence.
With the weight.
You may toss this letter.
Mock it.
Archive it.
Ignore it.
Or maybe—maybe—you’ll keep it.
Read it again someday.
When you need to feel less alone.
And if you do, just remember:
You don’t have to be great.
Just be good.
And when you fail—and you will—fail forward.
The country will carry the rest.
That’s all I’ve got.
The drawer’s yours now.
Good luck, Mr. President. We’re counting on you.
—S.D.H.
P.S.
Ignore your temptation to ask for briefings about Roswell, the Kennedy Assassination, Area 51, and all that. It will bore your socks off and all you’ll end up with is wasted time. Trust me. Bill tried to tell me, but I didn’t listen. When I told him, he laughed and said he hadn’t listened when George and Jimmy told him, either.