At some point after I discovered I was pregnant with my son, my mind set upon a series of thoughts that surely runs through the mind of anyone about to become a parent: What kind of world I am bringing this baby into? What will I teach him about what is, and what is possible?

American children of my generation grew up learning that "anything is possible," that we could achieve anything we dreamed of if only we worked hard enough. That anyone could be successful, anyone could attain the American Dream. That anyone could be President.

What we saw in our textbooks and on the news and what we heard from our parents and teachers and on the playground told another story. At some point "anything is possible" began to sound less like an encouragement and more like a lie.

Tonight at our neighbors' packed Election Night party, I hugged friends and friends of friends and complete strangers as we all cried tears of joy. I cried for our country, and the fresh start it so desperately needs. I cried for our history--how long it took us to get here, but Hallelujah, we got here, Amen. But mostly I wept those elated tears for my baby, who God willing will grow up in a world that's a little closer to the one I dreamed and hoped and prayed he would know.

In the street behind my house, people have been honking and cheering and singing and celebrating with friends and strangers for hours. My son sleeps peacefully in his bed. Tomorrow he will wake up to a new day. We all will.