This might be nostalgia talking, but I miss the old Election Nights, the kind we used to have before the stakes became so gruesomely high. No one was warning of “existential consequences” or calling trauma counselors into the office.

The end of a campaign was once something to celebrate, a shining marker of our participatory traditions—a jubilee of civic duty, a peaceful transfer of power. Now the once-routine exercise of certifying electoral votes has been officially designated a “National Special Security Event.”

Ideally, this ordeal won’t last too long, and we will have something in the ballpark of clarity soon enough. Ideally, no one will get hurt or killed this time. I wish I could reassure you that our democracy will survive, no matter what.

[Elaine Godfrey: The real election risk comes later]

Alas, I can say only this: Elections matter. And this one really matters. I’m guessing that you’re with me on this, and that you’re not one of those “undecideds” from the cable focus groups “still waiting to hear more specifics” from Kamala Harris or whatever. But if you’re reading this, I’m assuming that you’ll be watching tomorrow with a rooting interest. And you will not be calm.

Why not at least try? Perhaps attempt something that approximates “grief minimization,” a term I came across recently that has been bubbling back up into my brain a lot. Grief minimization is a choice—or at least a worthy goal, especially this week.

I’ve spent the past several days gathering wisdom. I’ve gone back and revisited some of the solace I found useful after the earthquake of 2016. “This is not the apocalypse,” then-President Barack Obama said in a postelection interview with David Remnick of The New Yorker. “I don’t believe in apocalyptic—until the apocalypse comes. I think nothing is the end of the world until the end of the world.” Certainly, Donald Trump’s presidency was bad, maybe worse than feared. But I took Obama’s point to be that prolonged grieving would be counterproductive, a kind of self-inflicted paralysis.

Likewise, preemptive anguish achieves nothing good. My friend Amanda Ripley wrote in The Washington Post last week about a study in which women waiting to learn the results of breast biopsies were found to have similar levels of stress hormones in their saliva as women who had already learned that they had cancer. “In experiments, people who believe they have a 50–50 chance of getting a painful electric shock become significantly more agitated than people who think they have a 100 percent chance,” Ripley wrote. “Anticipating possible pain feels worse than anticipating certain pain.”

In other words, don’t wallow in the potential for, or inevitability of, a worst-case scenario. Instead, seek out distractions. Maybe edibles too.

Shop for enlightenment beforehand, which you can apply during the white-knuckle hours. To that end, I spent a few days last week reaching out to some of my favorite campaign gurus. I wasn’t seeking intel about the election itself. Rather, my goal was to assemble a last-minute tool kit of coping mechanisms and best mental-health practices.   

As much as possible, we should try to make ourselves sensible consumers of the treacherous and triggering torrent of information we will soon be drowning in. Note the metaphor here, as it segues into the important piece of guidance: Be careful where you swim. Avoid needless waves and currents. This includes the majority of information you get on TV before a critical mass of returns are processed, not to mention most of the inane opinions and guesswork and “partial data” you’re getting from the various walls of broadcast noise (disguised as maps) before 9 or 10 o’clock.  

“It’s extremely important to consume news on your own terms,” CNN’s Paul Begala, the longtime Democratic consultant, told me. As Election Day approaches, Begala tries to turn off every news notification on his phone that could increase his level of tension. “You cannot let anyone weaponize your amygdala against you,” Begala said, referring to the brain area that helps regulate emotions such as fear. Text bulletins, algorithms, and (God knows) social media are engineered to prey on our amygdala. But resist. You do not need this information right now, let alone predictions or useless speculation. It’s just empty-calorie pregaming. Trust me, you will learn who won and who lost. The news will find you.  

In the meantime, be humble and surrender to the unknown. Again, no one knows who is going to win. I’m pretty sure it will be Donald Trump or Kamala Harris (you’re welcome). Yet people still have a primal need for certainty, even when it’s obvious that none is possible. They are convinced that some special class of TV decoders exists that is in possession of secret knowledge otherwise off-limits to the uninitiated. They want to believe that these alleged super pundits are hoarding the “big secret” for themselves and their various co-conspirators.

“Some woman at LaGuardia came up to me and said, ‘Who’s going to win?’” James Carville, who will be yapping on Election Night with Brian Williams on Amazon Prime, told me. “And the guy who’s with her said, ‘Oh, he knows who’s going to win. He’s just not telling you.’”

Carville gets this a lot. “People think people like us have all the answers,” he said. Here’s a not-so-big secret: They do not.

I used to watch a lot of live sports on TV. I did this in large part because I wanted to see what happened in real time. Now, thanks to any number of screens that didn’t exist 30 years ago, I can be confident of learning exactly what happened and seeing what it looked and felt like as many times as I want. I partake of far more 10-minute YouTube synopses of NFL games than I do of full three-hour slogs (with the endless penalty flags, referee huddles, commercials, injury time-outs, official reviews, etc.). This saves me a whole lot of time and spares me a whole lot of the roller coaster.

I’m always hesitant to make sports analogies, especially with events of such terrifying magnitude as this election. Excluding those who have money on a game, sports will have very little real-life impact on most of the people who are choosing to invest emotionally in them.

Regardless, sporting events are much better-suited to television than election coverage is. When you watch a live game, the result is unfolding chronologically in front of you. That’s not possible for an event as huge and diffuse as Election Night, where partial data, secondhand projections, and “unconfirmed reports” are flying in haphazardly from all around the country. Chris Hayes had a good riff about this on MSNBC: “When you think about Election Night,” he said, “it’s like hearing the results of a full basketball game, basket by basket, but being read totally out of order, after the game already ended.”

You should really consider skipping most of this. Take a walk. Leave your phone at home. Steer clear of any news, stimuli, or people that could raise your blood pressure. This almost certainly includes Trump, who will probably declare a massively premature (and maybe erroneous) victory, no matter what the early returns say. Yes, this will be deeply irresponsible, but it should surprise no one. And any energy you devote to reacting will only sap your reserves for later, when you will need them.

[David A. Graham: How is it this close?]

I’ve seen landslide projections for both sides, and cogent arguments for why pollsters might be undercounting the support of both candidates. But a very close race remains the most likely scenario. Pace yourself and be realistic. Breathe, meditate, pray, seek simple pleasures, and be kind. It’s okay to be scared about whatever might unfold. Appropriate, even.

Rest assured, you will have a sizable community of fellow basket cases to commiserate with. Take comfort in them. Reach out and say you love them.

“This is easily the highest-stakes election of my life where I have not been personally involved,” Mac Stipanovich, a longtime GOP operative and lobbyist in Florida, told me. Stipanovich, a Never Trump Republican, says he is as nervous about tomorrow “as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs.”

Stipanovich wouldn’t speculate on an election result. But I got the gist: Anxiety is a natural side effect of this exercise, and maybe even a privilege of a democracy—if we can keep it.

Scholars and advocates for democracy who have tried to warn voters about the dangers posed by a second Donald Trump term are, to some extent, victims of their own success—or, rather, the perception of it. Having fought to defend the nation’s institutions during Trump’s first term, they now worry that Americans have become complacent about the risks of a potential second term.

“There’s this mythology that permeates that Trump didn’t damage institutions in the first term,” Amanda Carpenter, a former GOP staffer who now works for the civil-society group Protect Democracy, told me recently. “And I think that’s completely wrong.”

Indeed, institutions at nearly every level of American society failed during Trump’s first term, which is a big reason a second Trump term is even possible. The press, all three branches of the federal government, nongovernmental organizations such as the Republican Party, and the private sector all crumpled when confronted. The failures were of both personal leadership and systems. A reelected President Trump won’t just have figured out how to better fight a healthy system. He will face one that is already in dire condition.

[David A. Graham: We’re watching an antidemocratic coup unfold]

An exhaustive account of institutional collapses would be, well, exhausting, but a tour d’horizon should suffice. In 2015 and 2016, a majority of Republican-primary voters and an overwhelming majority of Republican Party leaders opposed Trump’s candidacy for president, but the party revealed itself to be incapable of organizing—one of its most basic functions—to resist the threat posed by a charismatic outsider. The traditional press also showed its susceptibility to a candidate able to attract almost endless attention, and how powerful that attention was, even when negative. The result was a narrow Trump victory in 2016.

The first constitutional check on a president is Congress. In the first two years of Trump’s presidency, both the House and the Senate were controlled by Republicans, who showed little interest in serious oversight work. After Democrats took over the House following the 2018 midterms, they began investigating Trump. They even impeached him after he attempted to withhold funds from Ukraine in exchange for helping Trump’s reelection campaign, but the GOP-led Senate declined to convict him, moving the goalposts. Elsewhere, however, Democrats were slow to respond to Trump’s stonewalling. For example, they sought his tax returns and were finally able to release them—in December 2022, nearly two years after he’d left office.

This was in part because Trump was able to recognize that the courts were a weak link in the constitutional order. The justice system is designed with lots of protections to ensure that no one is deprived of due process, but that also means that a defendant with sufficient money and bad faith can manipulate those protections to run down the clock.

The nature of the failures in the executive branch was more complex. Many members of the administration cooperated with Trump on legally, ethically, or morally dubious schemes. Others resisted them, sometimes bravely: Whistleblowing and public testimony from White House and State Department officials rattled by Trump’s pressure on Ukraine was courageous and came at a cost to them. In other cases, administration officials resisted Trump simply by refusing to execute bad ideas. This may have sometimes staved off acute disasters, but the federal government cannot function correctly if unelected officials feel empowered to decide when to follow lawful orders from the president. This is one of the institution’s vulnerabilities: Officials of conscience sometimes have no good options.

Trump’s attempts to subvert the 2020 election demonstrated the disastrous convergence of all of these failures. The president’s attempts to railroad state officials into supporting his efforts were prevented by people such as Georgia Secretary of State Brad Raffensperger and Arizona House Speaker Rusty Bowers, but Trump demonstrated how brittle the systems were by coming close to subverting the election. Some local election officials also showed far less integrity.

After January 6, the House once more impeached Trump, but the Senate again refused to convict. One major factor was that the Senate Republican leader, Mitch McConnell, concluded that Trump’s career was finished, thus excusing himself from taking any political hit by supporting a vote to convict.

The judicial branch is frequently celebrated as the institution that best resisted Trump’s election subversion. Courts did reject the Trump campaign’s legalistic efforts to keep him in office, but that is largely because its claims were so flimsy and lacking in evidence that judges had no other choice. The judiciary’s actions since then have revealed it to be as fragile as the other two branches. Trump has managed to thus far avoid criminal trials for his election subversion and for pilfering sensitive national documents and trying to hide them from the government; he has promised that will obstruct justice to ensure that remains true if he wins. Politico recently reported that judges have repeatedly expressed concerns about Trump gumming up the legal system with frivolous process arguments.

[Read: Trump is being very honest about one thing]

The Supreme Court, meanwhile, has played along with Trump. It ruled this past summer that nearly anything a president does under cover of the presidency is immune from prosecution, giving Trump sanction for past actions and opening up new avenues for future chicanery. One of the justices in the majority is married to a prominent participant in Trump’s election subversion. Another had a pro-Trump flag flying over his house, for which he blamed his spouse.

The private sector is no more resilient. After January 6, social-media companies banished Trump, and major corporations pledged not to contribute to politicians involved in election denial. But Trump is back on Facebook and X, and many of the companies that made the pledge have since quietly begun donating to such politicians once again. Major private institutions have continued to bend the knee to Trump, even before the election has taken place. The press has also weakened. The Washington Post spent years warning that “democracy dies in darkness,” but last month, the paper opted not to endorse a candidate for president, reportedly at the direction of its owner, Jeff Bezos.

The bad news is that the only major institution left is the American electorate. That is also the good news. A majority of voters rejected Trump in 2016 and again in 2020. They rejected his party in 2018 and only weakly supported it in 2022, with Trump out of office. In a democracy, the people are the most important institution—the source of legitimacy for all parts of government, and of accountability for the private sector. The choice is in their hands.

In the fall of 2022, pro-democracy protesters in cities across mainland China developed a clever tactic for speaking out against government forces that wished to silence them. They began holding up blank sheets of paper, as well as tacking up blank paper in public spaces, to register their disapproval of restrictive lockdown rules as well as their disapprobation of the government’s repressive censorship laws.

Observers from all over the world noted with admiration the courage and creativity of the protesters, who’d found a bold way to speak out while saying nothing at all. Chinese authorities cracked down on the dissenters, censoring online reporting about them and arresting or otherwise threatening those who have tried to remind people of the movement since then.

In America, a country consecrated to freedom, the dystopian scenes out of China seemed distant. Americans understand on a bone-deep level that, to paraphrase James Madison, absolute sovereignty belongs to the people, not the government. Americans are free to say what we believe, and free to share our ideas with our fellow citizens. We are free to criticize the government, which is accountable to the people, not the other way around. The First Amendment does not grant us these freedoms—they are an inviolable right. The First Amendment does, however, dictate that the government dare not interfere with these freedoms, that officials have no right to cut down the American people’s speech, including the people’s right to free press.

To be comfortable in these freedoms, to assume that we would never need to resort to holding up blank sheets of paper to criticize the powerful, is a luxury that Americans cannot presently afford.

The United States is on the eve of an election that could see the return to power of Donald Trump, an autocrat who vociferously and repeatedly threatens the basic freedoms of the American people—with a particular preoccupation with curbing freedom of speech and freedom of the press. Worse still, he has persuaded his followers to cheer on the demise of their own freedoms. When Trump tells people that journalists are “the enemy of the American people,” or “evil,” when he says that Americans who describe the criminal charges he faces should be investigated for treason, he is not merely denigrating a professional class; he is directly attacking the rights of all Americans. He is attacking those who happen to work as journalists, but he is likewise attacking their neighbors—every American who has the right to free speech and free press themselves.

“I think the bigger problem is the enemy from within,” Trump said in an interview with Fox Business’s Maria Bartiromo in October. “We have some very bad people; we have some sick people, radical-left lunatics,” he said, using the term he often directs at American citizens who work in journalism, as well as his political foes generally. He went on: “And it should be very easily handled by, if necessary, by the National Guard, or if really necessary by the military.”

Donald Trump does not seem to believe in free speech or the freedom of the press at all. He believes that when his fellow citizens say things he doesn’t like, he should have the power to shut them up. And he has repeatedly suggested investigating and imprisoning Americans, as well as turning the U.S. military on the American people in order to do so. No wonder Trump is so starry-eyed over China’s dictator, Xi Jinping, whom Trump often praises in effusive terms. No wonder Trump has similarly embraced the dictator and former president of the Philippines, Rodrigo Duterte, who bragged about leading his country to the extrajudicial killing of thousands of Filipino citizens, including those working as journalists. (“Just because you’re a journalist, you are not exempted from assassination if you’re a son of a bitch,” Duterte once said.) And no wonder Trump openly admires the autocrats Vladimir Putin (“genius”) and Viktor Orbán (“a great man”), both of whom he describes as being “at the top of their game, whether you like it or not.”

In Trump’s recent interview with the podcaster Joe Rogan, Trump complained about the Americans who have noticed his pattern of adulation for the brutal leaders of antidemocratic regimes, whose citizens do not have the right to free speech. “They hate when I say—you know, when the press—when I call President Xi, they said, ‘He called President Xi brilliant.’ Well, he’s a brilliant guy. He controls 1.4 billion people with an iron fist.” He went on: “Actually, we have evil people in our country.”

Trump is making it abundantly clear that dictators aren’t the problem—rather, Americans exercising their right to free speech and free press are the problem, and they are a problem that should be solved by dictatorial rule.

One person who seems to share Trump’s confusion over basic American freedoms is Elon Musk, who strangely claims to be a free-speech absolutist, all while remaking Twitter into a propaganda arm of the Trump campaign. Musk, like Trump, is fixated on tearing down American citizens and their right to free press. Musk likes to post spirited calls to action on his social platform such as “We are the mainstream media now,” seeming to believe that he is the one who grants Americans their right to expression. (Never mind that a social platform that is truly absolutist in letting anyone say whatever they want would probably look more like 4Chan than anything else—that is, it would neither delete its users’ comments nor deploy algorithms to amplify its owners’ political views.)

Musk has long aspired to be taken seriously by the news industry, and his aggrievement seems to stem, in part, from the fact that he is not. Before his $44 billion purchase of Twitter, he floated the idea of starting various news sites—including one in which users would upvote or downvote stories as part of a “credibility-ranking site for people to rate journalists and news organizations,” not realizing or perhaps not caring that truth, and therefore credibility, is not something that can be established or eliminated through the clicking of buttons on the internet at scale. (Such a system would, however, be very useful for efforts at political warfare.)

Today, Musk claims that Twitter is “the top source of news on Earth!” when in reality it is among the closest analogues that America has ever seen to a state-run media outlet. And although several operators of huge social platforms have floated the idea of accreditation or licensing for journalists the way lawyers take the bar and doctors take board exams, there is no special class of licensed journalists, and that is by design. Every American citizen has the right to free press. You do not need to work full-time as a journalist, or pass a test, or join a professional association to exercise this right.

One of the knock-on effects of living in a country whose citizens have the right to say and publish whatever they want is that people sometimes say abhorrent things. (And also: People can consume the information they wish. But for that to happen, your fellow citizens have to be free to offer it to you in the first place, whether what you’re seeking is Newsmax, Joe Rogan, or The New York Times.) In practice, the rights of free speech and free press are interwoven this way. And any American who consumes media, or publishes their own research, reporting, or opinions on any platform—whether on a flyer stuck to a telephone poll, in an Instagram post, or in a local newspaper—is benefiting from the protection of these rights, and would suffer greatly if they were curtailed.

Social media is miraculous in its flattening ability—people can self-publish their ideas with very little friction and no financial cost; they have the potential to reach a massive audience in an instant. These qualities are positive on their face, and sometimes mean that people mistake Twitter for an engine of free speech, when in fact it is a private company run by an illiberal man who is throwing everything he has behind an anti-free-speech politician who wants to attack his fellow Americans with their own military.

Trump’s and Musk’s most ardent supporters are fond of posting a meme that goes like this: “You don’t hate journalists enough. You think you do, but you don’t.” Musk, of course, has every right to run his social platform how he chooses. If he wants to make it a forum for railing against the American right to free speech and free press, while believing he can convince people that doing so demonstrates his commitment to free speech, that’s his prerogative. If he wants to stoke hatred and partisanship, and advocate for interruptions to the peaceful transfer of power in the United States, he can.

But Musk cannot grant the American people their right to free speech any more than Trump can. The American right to free speech and free press is God-given. And the Constitution is intended to protect Americans from government tyrants who would attempt to quash our freedom in just the way that Trump is threatening to do, with Musk’s full-throated endorsement.

Trump’s threats are already effectively silencing Americans. Consider, for example, Jeff Bezos’s profound cowardice in banning The Washington Post from publishing its endorsement of Trump’s rival. (Ditto Patrick Soon-Shiong over at the Los Angeles Times.) Bezos, like Musk, is free to run his business how he chooses. But that shouldn’t shield him from criticism over his actions. In explaining his decision, Bezos blamed the American citizens who work as journalists for being hated, denigrated, and threatened by Trump. “Our profession is now the least trusted of all,” he wrote in an essay explaining himself, with no apparent trace of irony given the breach of trust that his actions represented. “Something we are doing is clearly not working.”

Something that is apparently working: Trump’s Musk-assisted campaign to tell Americans they should rail against their own right to free press and free speech. The illiberal techno-authoritarian crowd cheered Bezos on for his kowtowing, and for his chastising of the journalism industry, and Trump began using the newspaper’s non-endorsement as a campaign talking point. (It may seem odd that Trump would boast about a newspaper’s decision not to endorse his rival, given his hatred of the press, but he dismisses newspapers as “fake news” only when they criticize him.)

This is how tyranny works: Amplify praise for the dear leader, silence dissent, crack down on individual freedoms, repeat. A free society’s fall into authoritarianism does not start with citizens being forced to protest using blank sheets of paper. But it can get to that point with dizzying speed. This is the warning that people in once-free nations always repeat: You’re free until you are not. And destroying a people’s right to speak and publish freely is always one of the first moves in the autocrat’s playbook.

Centuries ago, the American colonists forging a new way of life on this continent found themselves subject to laws and restrictions on free speech that dated back to medieval England. You could not criticize the government without facing violent punishment. Public whippings were routine. One Maryland man, who called his local legislature a “turdy shitten assembly” in 1666, was sentenced to be tied to an apple tree and lashed 30 times, according to Stephen D. Solomon’s account in Revolutionary Dissent: How the Founding Generation Created the Freedom of Speech. A Virginia man who criticized the government had his arms broken and was beaten by a group of men who flogged him with their rifles. Courts sentenced others to have their ears cut off, as in the case of a Massachusetts man who denounced the Church and the government in 1631. Americans were lashed and beaten and bloodied for their right to speak freely. Eventually many of them fought and died to protect themselves, and they did so to create a free society that would protect future American citizens from such barbarism and tyrannical government overreach.

Trump would like to convince the American people that his hatred is laser-focused. He would like Americans to believe that his threats of retribution are reserved only for his political foes, for the former advisers he now deems disloyal, for the tens of thousands of American citizens who work as journalists. What Americans need to understand is that anyone who would threaten to quash the most fundamental rights of some of their fellow citizens is threatening to impinge the rights of all Americans. The United States is still a nation consecrated to freedom. And the American people should not hand it over to anyone who would dare try to convince you otherwise.