Dear Senator Sanders,

I was never excited about politics. From visiting the town hall with my parents during election seasons, I learned a few things about the voting process — it generates a lot of frustration, there are never any decent choices for president, you always voted for the lesser of two evils, and the best part about voting is the sticker and mint you get when you’re done. As such, I wasn’t too eager to take my place at the polls, even when 2016 came around: my first presidential election.

Then I heard about you. I still remember your first policy that caught my eye — you wanted to make Election Day a national holiday. I thought it was kind of funny at first, not seeing the benefits. But then I looked more into it and realized that what you really wanted to do was make voting more accessible for everyone — the working class, busy students, the groups of citizens that normally weren’t able to have their voices heard in politics. It was a great idea. From there, my interest in you only grew.

I was excited about politics for the first time I could remember. I supported all of your policies, listened to all of your speeches and recorded the debates I couldn’t see on television, cried when the bird landed on your podium—we even agreed on 99 percent of our political opinions, according to the “I Side With” quiz. I had found my inspiration. It was like the greatest romance novel because there was no romance, only political revolution.

I obviously didn’t like any of the republican candidates, but I really didn’t like Hillary either. I didn’t find her as honest, as sincere, as faithful to her beliefs as you—and besides, why would I invest hope in Hillary when I had Bernie Sanders, the candidate I agreed with 99.9 percent of the time?

It was too good to be true—a candidate I believed in who not a lesser of two evils, but a president I truly wanted in office. This was my first presidential election, and I promised myself that I would be able to vote for someone I truly thought was right for the job, that my vote would not simply be used as a weapon to keep an opponent out of the White House.

Then the election suddenly became a lot less fun—as in, less memes and more anxiety.

The primaries were rough for me, especially since I had had such high hopes in the beginning. The republicans started dropping like flies and soon all that was left was Trump. But that was okay for me, because I still had Bernie—until I didn’t. I held on until the very end, until the convention. (That was on my birthday, by the way. A rather sad birthday present, I’ll say.)

My initial reaction was to write in your name on the ballot in November. Sure, you weren’t the official candidate, but that didn’t mean you weren’t my candidate. I had promised myself I wouldn’t have to do as I had seen my parents do so many times before me—come November, I would not simply hold my nose, close my eyes, and submit to our unjust political system. I had promised myself I would vote for a candidate I believed in, and that’s what I would do, despite the naysayers.

I wanted a political revolution, and I knew you would be able to bring it. I knew, somehow, by some force, that if you were elected president, that you would be able to fix our corrupt system. I didn’t know how, but I believed that if I only connected the arrow by your name and hand over my ballot, you would be able to make it so that we would never have to settle for a president again.

And then you said to vote for Hillary. I couldn’t believe it—after all the words you had spoken, all the work you had done against her, you were going to stop the fight for a political revolution. I began to wonder if you were just like every other corrupt politician. I still wanted my political revolution, one way or another, and I was determined to get it.

I wanted my vote to send a message, to mean something, and then I realized it did, no matter who I voted for. If I wrote in your name, Senator Sanders, then I was taking a vote away from Hillary. I was essentially giving Trump more power. But if I voted for Hillary—as you had urged me — then I was taking a vote away from Trump and keeping the Democratic Party together. We wouldn’t split the vote, and we wouldn’t let Trump win. But only if I did as you asked and voted for Hillary.

By writing in you, Bernie, I was not going to be a revolutionary — I was going to be an idiot. The way I see it, when the sun sets on that fateful November Tuesday following the first Monday, either Hillary Clinton or Donald Trump will be president of the United States. One of those people will be able to help this country, help its citizens, help keep us alive; the other will allow homophobia, misogyny, Islamophobia, racism, ableism, and general hatred to thrive. Many will not survive a Trump presidency. That’s why getting Hillary to the White House is the only feasible goal now.

I know you won’t be able to win. No matter how many people write in your name, the only thing we will do is take votes away from Hillary, and that’s something we can’t afford. I know the only way you and your policies stand a chance now is if you and Hillary work together once she is in the White House.

I am disappointed, to say the least. I’m disappointed in our country, in our government, and yeah, I’m disappointed in you, too. But mostly I’m disappointed that I find myself in the same position I had vowed to never find myself: come November, I will sit down at my desk in my tiny college apartment. I will open the letter I’ll have received from my local town hall containing my absentee ballot. I will take my pen and I will resist the instinct to write Bernie Sanders and connect the arrow I truly want to send straight into the heart of our corrupt political system. I will take my pen and instead vote for Hillary Clinton, not because I believe in her, but because it’s the only way to keep our heads above water.

I am going to hold my nose, close my eyes, and vote for Hillary because right now, that’s the only way we’ll ever get our political revolution.