I don’t care about pantsuits. I don’t care about comb-overs or fake tans or shrill voices, and, frankly, I don’t care about beauty pageants. Generally, I think descriptions of physicality belong outside the realm of politics—even if it seems impossible. However, when former Miss Universe Alicia Machado spoke out, I listened, I’m still listening, and so should everyone else. In a video in which she exposes the disturbing harassment she suffered working under Republican presidential candidate Donald Trump, she said, “This is a man who doesn’t realize the damage he causes. He bears many grudges and harbors a deep racism, and he is convinced that there are lesser human beings than him.”

Could you dream up a worse byline for a president?

In case you missed Machado’s viral video, I want you to know that Donald Trump degraded her for her weight and labeled her “Miss Housekeeping” on the basis of her Latina heritage. He contractually broke his promise to pay her, humiliated her with the help of the media, and shoved her full-force into a hell of eating disorders and insecurities. And now, I want you to know that Donald Trump is a sick, pathetic criminal. Let’s see if I can get through the rest of this article without ever having to mention his vile name.

Machado’s struggle broke my heart and hit extremely close to home—literally. I live in a house full of girls: a house full of friends and snacks and late-night study sessions. Any one of us could tell you that sometimes it’s not so easy to inhabit our femme bodies. In fact, sometimes it’s terrifying. It’s trembling, and it’s tiring, and it’s “I don’t even want to be here anymore.” Sometimes we can forget how fast our bodies run, or how well they dance, or how free they should feel—no matter how skinny or fat.

I was one of those bossy elementary school kids, convinced that they’d be president one day. I still get goose bumps when I look too long at Barack Obama. The President should be an icon. The President should be a role model. The President should kiss babies, and break down barriers, and I’m not interested in one who bares any interest in whether or not my body is beautiful. My body is beautiful. My body is beautiful. My body is beautiful—it’s so easy for me to mess up my words when I hear them echoed over the intercom of our government. “My body is beautiful” can so quickly become “My body is big.”

“Bodies” become “bigness” which becomes “bulimia.” This isn’t how it should be.

When I sat down to watch the first Presidential debate my body was filled with brownies. I was lying on the couch, pants unbuttoned, tea brewing, popcorn popping. There were girls’ bodies draped all over the couches in our living room. We watched. We watched, and we heard about Rosie O’Donnel—again. We wondered, why does a woman get called “disgusting” and “fat” and “a slob?” And as if that weren’t bad enough, why does she have to keep hearing about it? I thought we’d be hearing about the issues, and no doubt this was a big one, but it’s one that should never have existed.

We kept watching. We watched a woman get interrupted, get told how to do her job, get told things she already knew, get told she was wrong, get told she wasn’t good enough—as if every girl watching in that room wasn’t already living it every day. I watched him lie. I watched him dismiss, and I watched him belittle, and I find this all so hard to believe. This isn’t politics. This is pathetic, xenophobic, misogynistic anger from an awful person. This can’t be happening. This can’t be happening. Has it already happened?

I’m a woman, and I’m voting for Hillary. I can’t fathom doing a different thing. A vote for a third party does nothing more but build up a tyrant—help him succeed. You’re hurting yourself if you vote third party, and you’re hurting yourself if you don’t vote, and you’re sure as hell hurting yourself if you vote for him. You’re hurting all of us. This can’t be happening.

We can’t let this happen.