It’s getting dark here, on the other side of the Atlantic, and I will soon inevitably fall asleep, and when I wake, the world will be a better place. Children all over the world, girls and boys alike, will see it too. They’ll see that hatred, bigotry and racism loses. They’ll see that their mothers, like their fathers, can do what they set their minds to, and they will feel pride for the world that they are growing up in.

We, as adults, will have partly provided them with what we promise them as parents; safety. They will feel comfortable, secure, they will not be afraid.

This election is not only about America, who will be its president, who will try to unite a country so mournfully split. It’s about the rest of us too. The world has looked up to you for too long, America, to simply dismiss a historic election such as this. You are writing history, and it has to be the right one. It must be humane, it must be sane, it must be passionate.

I know a man, a citizen of your country, sick in a hospital bed, who summoned an ambulance to speed him to the US embassy here in Athens, against his doctor’s orders, so he can cast his ballot today.

I’m a member of a miraculous group, Pantsuit Nation, where members’ stories have mesmerized me over the past few days. White gay couples with three black children, Bible Belt democrats, straight New Yorkers, Florida grandmas, Texan lesbians, women terrified of the possibility of the wrong outcome, depressed, anxious, unable to sleep. It’s been an honor to read their stories, for they are stories of hope, true freedom, and acceptance.

I hope my son wakes me in the middle of the night, and while I stumble to the kitchen to warm him some milk, at that very minute, I will hear the shattering of that immense, thick, yet never unbreakable glass ceiling. It will shatter on all of us, all over the globe, and I for one, will take my son by the hand, and dance fearless and barefoot in its pieces, as the sun appears on the horizon.

I’m not a hard-core feminist. Actually, I’m not really a feminist at all. I grew up in a society that was heavily matriarchal at its core, where women were the family’s decision makers, the power holders, in a country where most men where either alcoholics or stagnant, at least as far as I can remember. That’s what the system permitted. There was no such thing as the women’s rights movement in the Soviet Union. There were other problems to tend to.

My grandmother has probably never voted. But she has a university degree, a job she stayed at for decades, she loves clothes and make up, and is constantly obsessed with what she looks like. At 82, she puts on more mascara a day than I do in a year.

I remember riding the subway with her, I couldn’t have been older than 10.

“Don’t sit like that, keep your knees knocked together, you’re a lady.” My clothes always needed to be feminine, my weight is always an issue. And find yourself a man who respects you and whose shoulder you can lean on in more ways than one. Respect your husband and tend to his needs. You don’t want him to stray. “But keep thinking about what you will do with your life. I imagine you will want to be a doctor, a lawyer, something that will keep you independent, don’t forget that you must always strive for independence. And try to live in America.” I never questioned how these two extremes coexisted without driving her insane.

I grew up to be a woman who keeps her knees together while sitting when needed. And after a myriad of failed, wrong relationships, I knew enough to marry a man for so much more than a financially promising future. And I did not become a doctor or a lawyer because none of this ever mattered to me. And I don’t wish it had, in retrospect. And though I love to look pretty, I don’t obsess about it when circumstances don’t permit me to.

I’m human. I’m a woman. Sometimes, I’m doing the best I can, other times, I’m doing just enough to survive. And forever, will I believe in what I do.

Hillary Clinton is a woman. She’s been doing the best she can in a world far more complicated than mine. With millions of glares on her every move, and a lot more people to answer to than my grandmother. She survived being a First Lady, she’s dealt with a White House affair, she survived bashing as the Secretary of State, she survived political scandals, she raised a child, and went through as much as any other woman has. I don’t care about politics, I don’t care about how much money she has, I don’t care about Bill, I don’t care about Bernie. What I I care about is that against all odds, the cracked glass ceiling of eight years ago has come crashing down in a rain of brilliant glitter. History has been altered forever. It made me giddy with pride, because her victory belongs to all of us, and to all those that came before us. It made this 40-something housewife cry at 7am over my son’s school lunch, and it made me want to call my grandmother and tell her that, today, America is place I want to be. I can’t help but wonder what Hillary’s grandmother would have to say.